La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-19

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Lyndy Life Tip #173: If someone at work or in a social gathering says to you, “let’s keep in touch” it typically means you will never hear from that person again. Doubly-so if that person snaps fingers or winks.

Lyndy was secretly entertained by Blondie’s trials with her uniform.

Cathy inhaled again. “Yep. But fugitives aren’t my type. And I don’t know where he is today.”

Lyndy’s heart sank. “Why did you end it?”

“He bought a gun,” answered Cathy, in an un-emotional tone. “That’s a deal breaker for me. But you know, the thing with the dancer at Cadillac’s, she was trying to get back at him. Evan was a heartbreaker in his own way, like you and me I guess. Anyways, doesn’t matter now. He told me he wasn’t going back to jail under any circumstances.”

“Can you think of anything else? I gotta find him. After this, my next option for making money is to give blood.”

Cathy sighed. “That’s all I have to say. I don’t know where Evan is now, Lyn. I would tell you if I did. I haven’t seen or heard from him in weeks. If I do see him, I’m going to tell him to F off, but first I’ll call you.”

Cathy twisted the latch on the back door and was about to step inside. Like a lightning bolt Lyndy grabbed onto Cathy’s upper arm to stop her. “One last question I promise. You grew up here. Who is that older lady who always wears the ugly brown sweaters? Do you know who I’m talking about? Lately, every time I see her, she gives me the dirtiest looks. It’s like she’s judging me, or I’ve got on the scarlett letter.”

Cathy crinkled her nose in amusement. “Sounds a lot like Mrs. Wallach,” she said.

Lyndy snapped to attention, tossing aside the Newport. “Wait a doggone minute here. Did you just say Mrs. Wallach? Or do I need to adjust my hearing?”

Cathy nodded. “I’m pretty sure that’s Evan’s mother. Makes sense why she’s giving you the stink eye. I probably would too.”

“She’s Evan’s mom? So they are brothers?”

“It’s hard to believe, but that lady had like three different husbands.”

Lyndy cupped her fists together, covering her mouth. At last she knew where Evan must be hiding—and she had recently driven right through there. “Thanks-a-million Cath! All is forgiven.”

Cathy appeared bewildered at Lyndy’s excitement.

 

Meanwhile …

Things like that always captured his attention, details in the eyes of a lawman. He was cresting Granite Pass when Deputy Keynes first noticed fresh tracks, created by a heavy vehicle, departing the road at a 30 degree slant. It wasn’t the sort of place anybody sane would think to stop, nothing particular to see. It wasn’t the way someone with car trouble would pull over either, because this driver had a destination in mind, and had been traveling at moderate speed.

Traffic was non-existent. At this hour one could do complicated yoga moves in the road without fear of being run over. Though on occasion, gangsters from Las Vegas buried bodies out here in the middle of the night. No joke.

This kind of car had a longer wheelbase, and thus would not be very capable off-road; like a crummy family station wagon. The tread pattern was indistinct, with blurry sections, indicating a vehicle possessing open diffs and no four-wheel-drive.

It could be a tourist who made a bad decision or wrong turn, and gotten lost out here. For this reason Dale liked to check on such things personally. But he had his pistol ready too, in case he happened upon someone with a shovel and lots of gold jewelry.

Time to kick up some dirt.

Instinctively, Dale put his Bronco in low range, turning off the pavement and circling back to pursue the tracks. He considered calling in to dispatch to report this potentially hazardous activity, but remembered there was no line-of-sight for the radio here. He would need to backtrack in order to do that, so he didn’t bother.

There were other reasons too. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to be patrolling out here. In fact, he’d kind of gone AWOL on the department.

The tracks followed the trace of a 50-year-old mining or ranch road, curving among the occasional pinyon pine and juniper, dipping in and out of washes. At each turn, he marveled how that boat of a car had managed to navigate this treacherous terrain.

But eventually Dale reached a point where the trail had completely washed out. To continue meant dipping down sharply into a u-shaped ravine. Here, the individual driving the station wagon had been forced to halt. However, their car was curiously absent the scene, and it occurred to Dale they had likely returned to the highway; he hadn’t realized those tracks had been coming the other way.

The department Bronco could have made it to the other side of the gulch, but it wasn’t worth risking becoming the laughing stock of the force if he failed. Dale decided to put it in park for a while and investigate on foot.

The chill air hit as soon as he kicked open his door; an instant reminder he was at high elevation now. He reached under the seat for his balled up hunting jacket, an item he hadn’t touched in weeks. Shrugging on a coat in this isolated mountain range—a fortress of ragged trees and boulders surrounded by miles of desert—he should have felt alone, but he didn’t.

Pointing a flashlight at the ground it became apparent someone had continued on foot, traversing the ravine. They were wearing tennis shoes, a small size. Their vehicle was missing so the person, possibly a hiker, had likely returned safe.

Dale knew the East Mojave as good as any prospector or desert rat alive. He wasn’t aware of any noteworthy mines or other worthwhile destinations in this part of the granites. Though night had come, he decided to find out where the stranger had ventured. He didn’t feel like going home anyway.

 

 

Across the valley, Evan Stone was resting atop a boulder, under the sprawling limbs of a healthy pinyon pine. He was lying on his stomach, fingers gripping the vertical edge of the rock, surveilling the dry meadow below. Next to him was his hunting rifle with scope.

It was a secure spot he’d visited a half-dozen times in two weeks. The flat rock had a bird’s eye view of the area, and came with the benefit of camouflage from above. A fat raven lived near the same rock, occasionally croaking at Evan for using his perch. But what made this mountain good for birds, was also good Evan. He’d been living like Davy Crocket for going on 20 days. And now The Lovelace Corporation was so upset they had sicked their two most troublesome bounty hunters, Mr. Chan and his fearless partner, the half-Mexican woman called La Fierabrosa.

Matt promised his gang would take care of her, but so far she had not been stopped. If she ever got too close, Evan knew he might have to shoot her himself.

No rain had fallen the entire time he’d been here. He expected the cache of water and food to have been delivered days earlier, and now he was running low. Something had delayed his mother. But now, with the cover of darkness and a night where the moon phase was creeping up on new, it was a perfect time to venture down to recover the supplies. Evan liked to retrieve them quickly, returning to his high camp like a ghost. It was the definition of leave no trace camping—except the point was to evade Johnny Law altogether.

Because of how deep the valley was, a sliver of moon wouldn’t rise until after midnight. It could be dangerous to move around in the sagebrush with no light; one risked stepping on a snake. The thought of being bitten by a Mojave green or other pit viper out here was terrifying. He would use his flashlight sparingly, only to light the way of his feet.

Evan rose up on one knee, shouldering the rifle by its padded strap. He took it slow trekking downslope, careful to avoid a fall. He tested each unfamiliar stone with the toe of his boot. If he found one to be unsteady, he took another route.

Rounding a bend and pushing aside a screen of cat-claw acacia, he was delighted to see the supply drop, right where he expected, out of view beneath a clump of desert willow. Must have taken multiple trips; it was at least a half-mile walk to the dirt turn-around, and Mother didn’t move well.

Evan was standing ten yards away, still obscured in brush. With his guard down he nearly switched on his light to high and made a run at them. Luckily though, he heard a sound, and noticed a flash from the other direction. The light caught the profile of a man, one who was tall and wearing a cowboy hat.

It seemed like a cop and he felt his stomach lurch. The stranger was soon interested in the supplies, tugging at the string securing them. In another flash of light he saw the glint from a badge on the fellow’s chest, confirming his suspicion. He wanted to curse aloud. The nosey cop would surely report this finding.

Evan continued to watch. Several times the cop looked upward at the surrounding hills, pointing his light at various points of interest. He was searching for whoever was out here, the cop knowing he was not alone. If the beam by chance fell upon him, the jig was up.

Evan put his hand on his chest.

He’d chosen this area for two advantages. One was obvious: these mountains were a maze of boulders, covered over with trees and thick brush. The second was just as important. There happened to be no police radio reception here. The repeaters were too far away. So the cop wouldn’t be able to contact the station without returning over Granite Pass and driving nearer to the Interstate.

The cop was scribbling on a piece of paper, holding the light between his neck and shoulder.

As soundlessly as possible, Evan started to retreat. He needed a higher position. He moved in one step at a time, pausing for five seconds between.

It was only a matter of time until the law came seeking him. Fortunately, this one was alone. Maybe he would leave first, drive away and call for backup. On the other hand, the situation was frustrating. One could bury a body out here easily, but no matter what he did, there was the matter of the police vehicle. How you gonna hide one of those? You’d have to drive it into the river or a lake—even then it might reappear.

His half-brother Matt had trained as a sniper in the Korean War. He had helped Evan  select this gun, for range and firepower. It came with a high quality sight.

From  miles away, a coyote howled, filling the void.

A moment later Evan heard the loud snapping noise, emanating from beneath his feat. Bad luck. He must have put his weight on a dry twig or fallen tree branch. A second passed, marked only by silence, as Evan started to move again. Then the light shone on his back, filtered through bushes and trees.

“Hey you there! Stop right now!” yelled the cop.

Even held his breath as he turned around, resting a finger on the trigger.

“Wait. I won’t shoot or arrest you. I just want to talk,” added the cop.

Evan raised the stock against his shoulder, squinting through the sight at the blinding source of light. In the midst of losing his balance, Evan pulled the trigger one time. The noise of the rifle echoed across the valley. The cop’s flashlight flipped upward and landed on the ground, in the on position. No additional words came, only a thud, the sound of someone falling hard.

Evan relaxed his shoulders and lowered the gun. He rubbed his eyes with his finger and thumb, taking a few breaths. He regretted his actions, already in disbelief at his own recklessness. Unsure what to do first, he knew he needed to get to the man. He wasn’t sure how well he’d hit the cop. Perhaps he wasn’t shot at all, only startled; but that felt like wishful thinking.

Evan took a single step back in the direction of the supplies and then he cursed aloud, because this time he heard the rumble of a motor. It was the distant sound of a Jeep, probably on the dirt mining road. He took a halting breath, laboring to suppress full-on panic. More people were coming. How was this possible? How could it be so soon?

He wasn’t happy to reload in the darkness, or use his own light. Things were going from bad to worse. He might have to return to camp, forgoing the supplies for now. Or he might not get the supplies at all. Rationing was in his future. And maybe he would have to shoot another person.

 

Ten minutes later …

Lyndy wished she hadn’t said those mean things to him.

The popping sound had made her nervous. Only two things in life made that worrisome noise, and today wasn’t Fourth of July.

She discovered Deputy Keynes lying on his back in the sand, motionless, as though stargazing. His arms were at his sides, palms open. His hat was upside down, indented, and he loved that hat.

It was difficult seeing her one time fiancé this way. Every girl she knew had a crush on Dale in high school; nearest thing to a celebrity in these parts. He was a strong fighter. She depended on him for help with CBB cases. She wished she hadn’t made him leave. It was a stupid argument. They were both equally wrong in their actions.

His body was positioned a few feet from several plastic jugs of water and boxes of groceries, all bound together with brown gardening twine. She knew these were meant for Evan Stone. The fact that they were untouched indicated he’d not been able to retrieve them. It would be a problem for him.

She stopped in her tracks, not allowing herself to rush to Dale’s side. It was probable Evan was hiding somewhere within shouting distance. If he’d shot Dale, he could just as easily shoot her too.

A row of trees and waist high brush skirted the clearing. Scanning her light along the edge revealed nothing but vegetation. She could hear nothing except her own breathing, and a wind cutting through the upper reaches of the granite spires. She was wearing the worst possible attire for this activity, already shivering.

Lyndy switched off her work light, letting her eyes adjust to the stars and Milky Way. The world evolved to grey masses and silvery outlines. It seemed too late in the game to withdraw, or be overly cautious. With Dale dead or dying, and her own days numbered, what was the value of caution? It didn’t matter. It hadn’t helped her thus far. Caring for Dale was more important now.

Overhead, the summer triangle shone prominently: Vega, Altair and Deneb, crisp with virtually no twinkling. At least she would have the darkness. If Evan was going to take a shot, it would be more challenging. As she moved, she kept her head down, feeling her way along the ground to where Dale lay.

Resting on her knees beside his right shoulder, she put her ear against his chest. Listening acutely, she could hear his heart beating and feel a slow up-down rise of respiration. The sense of relief was powerful. He was still breathing. On his face and forehead were small beads of sweat. Feeling his skin, it was moist and warm; her heart rejoiced. On the negative side, the front of his uniform was soaked with blood. Given how cool the air was, the fact that he had sweat beads could be a bad sign.

Little black ants marched across his arms. Lyndy angrily brushed away the insects with her hands. She whispered Dale’s name in his ear; it was loud enough he would hear if he were conscious, but he didn’t make any response.

Vaguely, Lyndy recalled a rule that you should never attempt to move someone who was critically injured. She dismissed that idea as not applicable here. Dale was a minimum 100 car miles to an emergency room, and an ambulance was over two hours drive away. Decisive action was required. Besides, where he was now, she wasn’t sure any ambulance could get to.

Tugging at the slack in his uniform, Lyndy tried to lift him on one side. With both hands and all her fingers pinching, she couldn’t manage enough grip to even turn Dale. The Spitfire was strong for her size, but 200 pounds of limp human body was too much. It wasn’t like she could carry him on one shoulder. Logically she knew that, but she felt obligated to make an effort. To simply move him a few inches, she would have to wedge her arms under his ribs and back, and reposition his legs.

Turning toward the path, she knew it was mainly soft sand and trampled grasses. Only a few brief sections of sharp rocks. She would need to drag Dale along the ground.

The Spitfire pushed herself to a standing position. Turning 90 degrees, she reached down for Dale’s ankle, cowboy boot and all. She wrapped her arms around the leg, gripping it like she was about to snap a football. Digging in her heels, she then yanked as hard as she could. With force requiring both thighs and her butt muscles, she managed to slide Dale a few inches. It was disappointing. Yet she had proven without a doubt, forward progress was possible. That was all that mattered. She tilted her head up, took a deep breath and got ready to pull again. But just as she was about to do so, she heard him speak:

“God damn you Lyndy Martinez! Don’t you ever give up? You’re about to pull my leg out of socket! Just what I need when I’m dying of a gunshot wound—a dislocation too.”

She was relieved to hear his voice at last.

“You’re awake! Oh my goodness,” she said. “I’m going to get you out of this. Trust me. Where are the keys to your truck?”

“Please, please, I’m begging you. Go away Lyndy!” complained Dale. “You’re the one person on Earth I don’t want to see right now.”

 

 

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-18

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

He would always be her first love, and that had to mean something.

Without leaving her rickity chair, The Spitfire bent down to retrieve the dented, half-folded sign. Chips of white porcelain were flaking off the edges.

Brushing gently with the base of her palm, she cleared a layer of cinder dust endemic to this valley. One could still read the word, “Mexicans”, in faded whiskey-bottle lettering, knowing the whole phrase warned: “No Dogs or Mexicans Allowed”. In days of old, these were a common sight in the agricultural communities.

“Do whatever you want with that relic,” declared Dale. “Target practice would be my suggestion.”

Her heart beat faster, the fingers on her empty fist clenching by rote. Flashes of Pinegate jolted her mind.

Ever since her detention, one incident troubled her above all; it had nothing to do with day-by-day abuses per se. It came after. Warden Dixon used to force juveniles to fight one another, as a form of sport and entertainment for the guards. In particular, she liked to make The Spitfire fight, because Lyndy was known as a safe bet. Over time, Mabel Dixon evolved to such a demonic figure, she began to seem immortal; a creature immune to confrontation. Yet the day Hector knocked her one time with a board, she crumbled, collapsing on the spot like some wrinkly old balloon deflating. He hadn’t even used his full power. So it was with the porcelain symbol of hate. Time and rust had eaten away the core, encroaching along the seams where the coating flaked off, to the point it was no more rigid than a pop can.

She felt anger rising. “Dale, you juvenile son-of-a-bitch. I know for a fact Matt Wallach would never have given this up without a fight.” Shaking the sign at him, she added, “this wasn’t necessary.”

Dale was in the sunlight. He remained straight-faced, thumbs locked through loops above his jean pockets, five-o-clock shadow outlining his beard. The deputy’s uniform hung loosely on his six foot frame, like he hadn’t eaten a solid meal in over a week.

Lyndy glared at him. “I believe our deal was, you were first going to have a talk with Wallach’s parole agent.” She gestured a long leap with two fingers, infusing her words with indignation. “So how did we get from there, to you punching the snot out of him?”

Appearing like a brash teenager, Dale gazed at the hills, smirking and shaking his head. On some level he was proud of his actions. “Just lost my cool or somethin. Look, I don’t understand why yer frettin about stuff? That isn’t the Lyndy I know. Wallach’s taken care of, stuck in an old hospital bed for another two weeks. He eats meals from a straw, watching Days of Our Lives. And if he does try anything, you know I got yer back.” He patted his leather holster.

Oh sure….

Lyndy gained not the slightest sense of relief from his words. A chill radiated out from her spine through her nerves, buoyed by the prospect of bloodshed to come. Dale could protect her from Wallach’s cronies no more than Chan could protect her brother from being shot in the back.

“You’ve started a war,” she admonished, exhaling audibly and fanning her drying toes. “You’re like one of them strong but reckless guys in a kung-fu movie, and when you eventually get your ass whupped, I’m the one standing who has to face the big boss by my lonesome. Happens every time.”

Dale took a hesitant step, bringing himself closer to her table. “Can I please sit down at least? We should talk.”

He was met again with Lyndy’s fierce brown eyes. “No way. You need to leave.”

“Man, you’ve changed.”

“Damn straight I have,” snapped Lyndy.

Backing down, Dale nodded to the North. “Heard you caught up to those thieves at the JBR.”

“I did. There were four border-riding outlaws, all working for our Mr. Wallach. At least two of them grew up in Mexico. So figure that one out.”

“Not much of a surprise,” said Dale with a shrug.

“If you can control yourself, please lay off Ted Crawford a while. Stop your bullying. He hasn’t done anything to you.”

“You got a thing for him?”

“None of your business!”

Dale pressed his hands together, covering his nose and breathing into them. “Sorry.” His eyes narrowed again. “Look Lyn, I need to come clean …” he stammered mid-thought. “It’s been difficult for me too. I care about Miranda a lot. God knows I do. I care about my kids, and I want to be a good dad.”

“I wish I could believe you,” Lyndy lamented, raising her arms.

Dale stretched out his hand. “Hold on, let me finish. It’s hard for me. I know we … correction … I made some unfortunate decisions up to now. I shouldn’t have done what I did. I’m tired of letting Miranda down. I failed her multiple times, and almost created a whole bigger mess.” His voice was cracking.

Lyndy couldn’t think how to respond. She wanted to put a positive spin on the situation, perhaps offer words of encouragement, or apologize for flirting with him, or for failing at knowing where to draw the line. But you can’t very well polish a turd, so she simply replied, “You’re a pretty good cop.” She couldn’t even make an unqualified statement on job performance, because in her world, Granville was a model lawman, and Dale paled in comparison.

“Fine, then we ain’t even friends no more. And since it’s the only thing left that will please your highness, I’m going,” grumbled Dale, visibly upset—probably tearing up—and leaving words unsaid.

“Don’t come back,” thought Lyndy.

 

Lyndy Life Tip #172: There’s a common phone scam where a caller claims to be working for the FBI or local police department, and they tell you there is warrant out for your arrest. In order to avoid arrest you must pay an immediate fee by credit card over the phone. The absurdity of this circumstance is, why would the police or anyone call you to warn you they are going to arrest you? It would only give you, the criminal, a chance to run.

As soon as Dale’s Bronco peeled out onto 66, kicking up dust while zooming away, Lyndy jumped up. She flicked the old sign into a rusty barrel of decaying car parts. Then, hobbling like an injured duck, she waddled to her clay planter of cacti—a desert garden. She felt as though she needed to act, or risk continual rehashing of painful memories.

On the tallest cactus were three picture-perfect white blooms, each beginning to open with the transition to nighttime. Lyndy rubbed her fingers against one, picking up a bee’s leg worth of pollen. Unlike most perennials, these succulents were flowering to attract nocturnal fliers such as moths and bats.

Feeling more at peace, Lyndy pulled on cleanish socks and boots, preparing herself for a ritual she repeated every week or two. Inside the trailer, Lyndy probed underneath the bed until she located a hand-made Indian basket, near as old as she, woven from entwined raw strands of yucca and bear grass. Plucking several of the best cactus petals, but leaving enough to do the plant’s job, she deposited them in the basket; it contained many more dry petals.

Basket in one hand, Lyndy ascended the rock steps once leading to a silver mine. They were constructed sturdily by workers whose mules often carried satchels of heavy ore. Few people knew this trail existed. The pathway switch-backed methodically along the ridge behind the airstream, to a high point several hundred feet above the town. There, amongst thriving specimens of nolina, stood a four-foot high monument of stones. It was where she spread the ashes.

Lyndy rested her knees on a flat rock, cradling the basket in both hands. As sunset arrived, so did a blast of air, the same as the first night. Cupping a handful of the dry petals, she gently released them to be carried aloft by the breeze. At times they passed from sight quickly, floating for miles on air currents, never seen again.

With the day’s heat subsiding, a line of distant thunder clouds spread over the valleys, turning pinkish. Those clouds reminded her of something, a neon sign, shining atop an iconic Barstow restaurant. In a mock cursive writing, the beacon read: “The Vanishing Point”.

Lyndy combed the hair from her face as she mouthed: “Why the heck was Blondie staring at me during the street race? If you think about it, she’s the one who slept with my boyfriend. How’s that my fault?”

The hankering for loud country-rock music came at odd times. But when it hit you, it hit you.

 

Minutes later …

 

Back in the airstream, Lyndy shifted her weight from foot to foot, while plucking her eyebrows in the medicine cabinet mirror. For her next act she needed to look her best. The Vanishing Point felt like crossing into hostile territory, or maybe the twilight zone. And one never knew how many ex’s could be there.

For her outfit she selected shorts, a halter top, gold hoop earrings—gifts from Rita—and strappy heels. Her shirt exposed the classy amount of bare shoulders and back, but no more. Her skin was extra tan, from the day she’d spent in the backcountry. While the frilly shoes compromised stability, they brought her eye level with most men.

Lyndy squinted to spritz on a few puffs of her priciest perfume—the kind that made males pause mid-activity thinking: “what’s that smell?”

 

One hour later …

One consistent thing about hate, it never really goes away, it evolves. The Vanishing Point didn’t post any signs warning away minorities, but it didn’t need such signs. The fact that they were unwelcome was written on the faces of the patrons, and the way the hostess acted put out anytime a non-white person wanted a booth; even the allowed records on the Happy Days style jukebox were screened.

The copious parking spaces were defined by old railroad ties—one resource this town never seemed to run out of—positioned horizontally and half-buried. Lyndy rested the front bumper against one of these markers. So far, people coming and going were paying her no attention, which was a good thing.

Before stepping down from the driver’s seat, The Spitfire paused to slip the shoes on her bare feet. The air was so dry it irritated her nose; the kind of night when a miniscule spark could ignite a raging forest fire.

The Vanishing Point was a roadhouse in every sense of the word; a shimmering beacon to macho truckers on the interstate. Standing alone in the gravel parking lot, one would never know such a thing as stars existed. Neon lights buzzed with retina searing brightness. Come all ye drinkers, guzzlers of cold beer, play some cards, see the opposite sex in the flesh and perhaps even speak to one. But despite these earthly attractions, it was inconveniently on Blondie’s half of town.

Frequent fist fights led to calls for it to be closed down on more than one occasion. In one instance, the place had been reduced to ashes by a disgruntled patron, only to be rebuilt in much the same fashion. Somehow, like the bedazzling waitress, it endured.

Cathy Cookson presided over this fandango like a queen, worshipped and revered; hell, she got tipped when she wasn’t even somebody’s waitress.

With loud country music wafting from the smoky interior, Lyndy repositioned her form hugging top and touched up her lipstick. By this time of night, traffic on I-40 thinned out. Only a half-dozen trucks, moving like a string of pearls, traveled along the westbound lanes.

“I used to be so nice,” thought Lyndy, reaching for her purse.

The front double doors were meant as a reflection of an old timey saloon; now they were just irritating. As loud as the conversations had been, as soon as The Spitfire pushed her way inside, all went hush. A redneck trucker at the jukebox deposited a quarter, and prepared to make his selection. Mid-search, he turned around to stare, as did two men who were playing darts. The hostess, clad in the blue and white uniform, eyed Lyndy up and down, probably thinking: “there goes my night.”

Romulans have entered the neutral zone.

A quick glance around the room showed no blondie. The two waitresses working the tables wore light blue skirts and matching tops, their lesser attire indicating fewer years of experience.

Lyndy stepped to the counter.

So far everyone was behaving respectfully, save for three rough men seated in the booth nearest the pool tables, underneath a mounted pair of bull horns. They were in their early twenties, playing tough, with preposterous leather jackets—probably trying to act the part of a gang. One of them was snickering.

In less desperate times, and with an easier case, The Spitfire would have ignored them. But somehow, Dale’s incompetence had fueled additional rage.

Brushing past the hostess, Lyndy strode to the far booth.

A song from The Bellamy Brothers began to blare; the trucker had made a bold choice.

The Spitfire rested her palms on the filleted metal edge of the table, leaning over til she got a whiff of the tangy, cheap lager beers.

“Gentlemen, what’s so hilarious?” she whispered, gesturing for truthful answers.

All three were slumping down, exhibiting terrible posture.

“By the way,” she added in the same breathy tone, “you boys look disgusting to me.”

A man with oily, curled hair shrugged. “Nothin. We just heard you and Deputy Keyne’s days are numbered; that’s what somebody said.”

“Is that a fact,” replied Lyndy. “How amusing.” She stood up straight, drawing her feet together to appear taller. “Do any of ya’ll know who Evan Stone is?”

They shook their heads, using minimal effort and checking each other’s faces.

“You sure bout that? Want me to repeat the question?”

Still no answer.

“Alrighty. Then do you think one of you can deliver a special message to mister Wallach for me? It’s brief.”

All the boys nodded, with one sitting up more and mumbling in the affirmative.

Lyndy raised her voice this time, loud enough for anybody on that wall to hear. “You tell him I’ll be waiting.” Then she slammed her palms on the table, making the beers slosh.

Talk about tense. Ordinarily, there was no non-awkward way to exit out of a threat. But right at that moment a young trucker, breathless, green trucker cap and all, tapped Lyndy on the shoulder. She whipped around, nearly elbowing the poor guy in the ribs; but he had quick reflexes.

This fella had superb timing.

“You look nice. Care to dance Miss Martinez!” He said, with the verbal deftness of a cattle auctioneer.

Lyndy smiled kindly. “Sorry, definitely not today; I came to find Cathy,” she asserted. “How bout next time.” Then she dodged sideways, charging straight for the shiny kitchen door, throwing it open with max forcefulness.

The kitchen was a zoo, pans sizzling and plates sliding everywhere, but Cathy wasn’t there either. Lyndy locked eyes with the head cook a moment. He was wearing a red and black bandana on his forehead, dark sunglasses, but he seemed to know exactly what she wanted.

“Yo, Cathy’s in the back man, taking her break.”

In all the years The Vanishing Point had been operating, Lyndy have never ventured to the area behind; a forbidden zone. Lyndy twisted the handle on the creaky screen door—the kind at mountain camps—stepping out guardedly.

Their unkempt brick porch had been piled high with discarded pallets and buckets of cooking oil. An old generator, rusting, sat adjacent to a mounds of rocks. After letting her eyes adjust, she could see outlines of storage units, empty foundations and lived-in trailers, and a line of trees bordering the riverbed. Moths danced at the windows, and by the door.

In the light cone of a caged outdoor bulb, stood a feminine silhouette. They were resting against a support pillar, fully at ease, with the smell of menthol wafting in the air. Unmistakably, that silhouette belonged to Miss Cookson.

“Hey there Lyn,” came Cathy’s breathy call, through her shroud of smoke, almost as if she’d been expecting a visit from The Spitfire all along. That was the sign of a person with something emotional to get off their chest.

Waving away the smoke screen, Cathy strode her direction, and Lyndy could see that the lady’s uniform was undone, with the sleeves resting against her hips. Covering her skin, she had on a simple white slip.

“Howdy,” was all Lyndy could say.

Cathy half smiled, gesturing to her body. “When I was a teenager, this thing used to fit me with room to spare. Now I can hardly breathe in it.” She pressed the half-full pack into Lyndy’s hand, drawing a silver lighter from the middle of her bra.

Looking down, Lyndy recognized the green label. “Huh. I didn’t know you smoked Newport,” said Lyndy.

“You don’t come around my restaurant very often,” replied Cathy.

Her restaurant. Of course.

“True. But that’s because I thought you hated me,” argued Lyndy. She stuck the filtered end between her lips, as Cathy touched flame to the tip.

Once red hot, Cathy flicked the cap back on the lighter, slipping it away and advancing to within inches of Lyndy’s face; with The Spitfire’s advantage of taller shoes, they stood eye to eye.

Holding a Newport, grinning her slyest and most seductive smile, Cathy asked, “Why aren’t we better friends Lyn?”

With an idea like that, Lyndy had to chuckle. “Where oh where to begin Cath. For one thing, you’re always trying to one-up me. And I know that isn’t my imagination. Been doin’ it since we were in tenth grade.” Lyndy puffed a few times to get it going. “And then there’s the whole Kyle Ellis fiasco.”

Cathy frowned, inhaling deeply and making a hissing sound with her front teeth. “I crossed the line didn’t I? I’m sorry about that. I know you were seeing him first.” Blondie’s country accent was distinct as ever, but her silky voice seemed strained and a little raspy on this night. She lowered her cigarette to the side, between her second and third finger, depositing ash and exhaling through her nose.

“Ah well, that’s alright I guess,” Lyndy said. “He must not have liked me as much as I thought he did.”

The Spitfire paced the uneven brick surface, being careful with her heels, pondering to herself when was the last time she ate an actual meal. She chuckled discretely, unable to suppress a memory of her brother.

“What?” demanded Cathy, thinking the laugh must be about her.

Lyndy waved her hands across her face. “Sorry, I was thinking when Hector was alive, he used to like to eat at this stupid hole-in-the-wall chicken stand, every chance we got. It had dirty picnic tables and flies buzzing around. And I hated the food. Plus their kitchen cleanliness was suspect; real dicey. I felt sure we were doomed to get food poisoning one day.” Lyndy stared at Cathy’s faded blue eyes. “Damn. You know I’d give anything to eat a meal there again, with my brother.”

Cathy’s expression had changed to one of weariness. “You didn’t go to elementary school out here, did you Lyn?”

Lyndy shook her head. “Nope. We were still living with Aunt Rose in Los Angeles.”

“Right. So you never met my brother.”

“Far out! I never knew you had a brother!” Of course, the moment the words rolled off her sharp tongue, Lyndy regretted saying them. She could see by the pain on Cathy’s face her brother was also not of this world. “I mean…uh…no I didn’t.”

“My older brother was the best thing about life. We did all kinds of stuff together. He was the only person who could make me happy, the first boy I loved—not in that way obviously—but you know what I mean. Which is why I despise guns.” Cathy gestured to Lyndy’s handbag. “Cause when he was 12 years old, he died in a hunting accident with his friends. They were shooting quail, by Soda Springs, and he tripped over a rock and landed on top of his gun—shot himself in the jaw. My father wouldn’t let me see the body, it was a bad scene. At least, they say it was quick.” Cathy touched a hand to Lyndy’s shoulder. The fingers felt warm, pressing on her bare skin. It was the peculiar kind of touch, lingering, like the prelude to a kiss. Had a man done this, or really anybody not in emotional distress, Lyndy would have smacked their arm away. “When my brother passed, he took most of my soul along with him. In those days, I thought I would never experience happiness again.”

“I understand,” said Lyndy, knowing there were no words which would be respectful to somebody who suffered such a loss. “I swear, I never knew any of that story.”

“Some things are so awful even small towns won’t talk about em.”

Lyndy nodded.

“With my mother and brother out of the picture, I’m the only Cookson left to take care of my dad, which is why I never left town. I got dealt a pretty crummy hand if you ask me.” Cathy deposited the butt of her smoke in a coffee can by the screen door. “Anyways, break time is over.”

“Cathy, before you go back in, I really need to ask you something important. I’ve been searching for somebody all week, and now the week is over, and I’ve got nothing. All my hours are used up.”

“Go ahead,” said Cathy, reaching around for the zipper to put her dress back together.

Lyndy took a deep breath. “Do you know who Evan Stone is? I’m guessing you might recognize the name. Maybe he came in here once in a while? He was a singer.”

Lyndy tried to read Cathy’s body language. If this didn’t work … well … there wasn’t any plan-D.

Cathy struggled with her zipper, head down, sucking in her stomach through gritted teeth. “Yeah, I remember him. We went on a couple dates long time ago.”

“Lemme help,” offered Lyndy, reaching for the zipper. “You two went on a date?”

 

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-17

Lyndy Life Tip #170: If you ever order a salad and it comes topped with ham cubes, bacon bits, shredded cheese, avocado and smothered in ranch dressing, just don’t even bother. Or do eat it, but realize you could have downed a porterhouse steak and all the trimmings.

The hour was well past dawn. A trickle of clear water spilled over the lip of a cement cattle guzzler, making barely a sound. Due to all the human activity, especially now, the half-wild cows would be too skittish to approach and drink—which of course was bad for their health, and business.

The Spitfire’s arms were trembling with tension; knowingly, she relaxed her grip.

Yards away, dying embers of a hardwood fire continued to emit smoke, near invisible to the eye. With each passing minute the sky grew brighter, alive with the intensity of desert sunrise.

“This camp smells like a plate of Canadian bacon,” mused Lyndy, her black Beretta still aimed in the direction of the cattle thieves, index finger resting near the trigger guard. She hadn’t eaten for 18 hours, and her sense of smell kept gaining prominence over all other functions; her muscles felt weaker too. This forager state of being was the main reason crash diets failed.

That maple-ham aroma was only part of a growing list of distractions, including the fact that Chan supposed there were four individuals camped here, but only two accounted for.

Lyndy re-directed her attention to the half-dressed Texans, blocking the makeshift tent; she monitored their every twitch, expecting treachery.

“Alrighty, I need some immediate answers from you doofuses. I’m searching for a pretty boy fugitive named Evan Stone. I’ve been told he’s holed-up somewhere in the east Mojave backcountry. Been askin’ around real nice, but nobody wants to cough up the location of his camp.”

No sneers or chuckles. By now they would have laughed, had they never heard the name. Perhaps he was sharing this primo spot with them?

The west Texan with the faded eyes blinked, tilted his head slightly and spat at the ground; didn’t speak though. His taller, vacuous pal, also stayed mute.

“I wish ya’ll would stop doing that. I think you know who I’m talking about, and I’m running out of patience; if I even have any.” Lyndy affirmed.

“Ain’t … seen … im,” replied the goat herder, firm and deliberate as always.

Then came a man’s scream, or perhaps a battle cry.

From somewhere in the chaparral behind Chan, a figure emerged. But before The Spitfire had time to react, or craft any sliver of a plan, he sprang forward. Shirtless and in cotton briefs, wielding a busted-top wine bottle, he charged. Chan swung his bat, missed, and the man flung the green bottle like a dagger.

Unprepared, Chan only had an instant to turn away, as the dense projectile smacked him at the base of his skull. The glass fractured further, coming apart in inch-sized shards, which rained down in the rocky soil. An ordinary man would have been knocked out. Chan was briefly stunned. He let go his bat, but didn’t tumble. The deranged biker was advancing upon him, swinging his fists.

Lyndy prepared to take action, but luckily Chan snapped out of it. “Why you little unhinged piece-a-crap,” he bellowed.

In a swift motion Chan seized the attacker by his elbow with one hand, and under his crotch with the other. Then he swung around in a discus thrower motion, hurling the full-grown adult like a sack of flour, directly into a nearby cholla patch.

His pals stood by in horror, knowing cholla had a reputation as the most devilishly pain-inflicting cactus in the entire Southwest.

Lyndy briefly surveilled the hills surrounding the spring, checking if anyone else was waiting to pounce, or worse. She was particularly mindful of any glints, but kept her Beretta aimed for the tent regardless.

It’s astonishing how much a modest head wound will cause you to bleed. Ever bonk yourself on a garage door lifter arm and you’ll know!

Chan felt around the back of his head and neck, and upon inspecting his hands, they were each coated as if dipped in a jar of scarlet paint. In reaction, he clenched both fists, and blood squirted in the air.

Yet the third fellow was in far worse condition than Chan. He managed to roll his body off the tops of the cacti, but lay motionless on the ground, whimpering and twitching. Atop his bare back and legs were many broken off teddy-bear arms. He began to moan.

Chan stomped up to the man, grabbing and lifting him by the hair. “Oh, would you just shut the hell up,” he said, punching the fellow in the temple, rendering him unconscious.

Next, Chan bent down to retrieve his slugger bat, spitting and cursing a string of unintelligible phrases. Signs of fury on his face were something she knew she would have to cope with later.

“Caught me another one of them rascals tryin’ to escape!” came an excited holler, followed by a dust-up and many snorts from the horse. The source of commotion was Rob Albright, crashing through tall weeds, with a lasso wrapped around the fourth of Wallach’s lackeys. Rob was in the saddle.

By jerking its strong neck and sidestepping, his horse was tugging out a man like a stubborn calf. Its nostrils flared as it pulled.

“Hey lay off me ya jerk! I surrender,” the man complained, with a voice like an educated Berkeley hippie. This one, a taller, lanky fellow, wore faded blue jeans and a dusty golf shirt. He had roughly 3-days’ worth of blonde beard stubble. But unfortunately, it wasn’t Evan.

With the main events over, Lyndy turned back to the Texans.

“Anybody else wanna be a hero today?” shouted Lyndy.

Both men shook their heads. The new one quickly stumbled to the line-up, joining his biker friends. He brushed himself off, then inverted his pants pockets, demonstrating to Lyndy he had nothing to hide. “Excuse me miss, these two fools look American, but they can’t speak a lick-a-English. Their Spanish is pretty rotten too.”

I’ve noticed.

“Mike over here growed up in Jaurez.”

Lyndy angled her gun to the new man, who seemed ready to do the talking.

“Look, we don’t want no more troubles. This junket ain’t been profitable anyhow.”

Lyndy glanced back to check on her boss. Chan was preoccupied, plucking bits of green glass from his neck. Lyndy switched up her stance, keeping the Beretta pointed the same.

“I have a better question,” she said. “This one told me Wallach was at Loma Linda. What happened?”

“He got assaulted—beat up worse than I’ve seen in a long time.”

“By whom?”

“Matt said it was yer damn boyfriend. No one else was at the bar, or got a look at the guy.”

So which of my “boyfriends” is that foolish?

“I don’t have a boyfriend. Who does he think is my boyfriend?” demanded Lyndy.

“I dunno. Some tough guy dressed as a cop.”

Dale!

“I’m really not sure who you’re describing,” said Lyndy defensively. “So then, Wallach never told you where Evan is?”

“Nope. None of us know. Might have helped him if we could. Not sure this is something you can believe, but Matt said to me, even he doesn’t know.”

Lyndy glanced back at Chan, who was sullen.

For some depressing reason, that answer seemed truthful.

 

20 minutes later …

Lyndy Life Tip #171: One of those lowly 59-cent black plastic pocket combs is the ideal tool for safe removal of stuck cholla arms. Whether embedded in skin or clothing, it works wonders. After removal, a simple alcohol wipe is a quick way to disinfect the puncture.

Tread-bare whitewall tires chirped around each bend, as the Cadillac sprinted along Kelbaker Road, a seldom traveled stretch of 2-lane blacktop linking Kelso and Baker. Occasionally, The Spitfire drifted over the double yellow, but luckily there hadn’t been any oncoming cars. Only truck drivers attempting to subvert the CHP scales used the road with any frequency.

With one hand clamped on the steering wheel, the other was free to apply violet colored lipstick. While smacking her lips together repeatedly, Lyndy took a casual peek in the rearview. Her eyes were met with Chan’s stone-faced glare.

Chan hated when other people drove his car. But he was confined to the back seat, holding a blood-soaked shirt to his bald head. He was attempting to stem the flow by applying firm compression.

Lyndy hooked a finger under the mirror, flicking the lever over to night mode. Then she adjusted the sliders on the cool air vents so more of it was directed to the rear.

“You know what this vehicle really needs,” offered Lyndy, clearing her throat and waiting for a response.

Chan did not make a sound.

“Pair a fuzzy dice,” she joked.

Silence.

Lyndy looked in the mirror again, this time using only her eyes. Chan had switched from one palm holding the shirt, to the other.

“I wish it wasn’t morning, cause I could use a margarita the size of a cantaloupe,” she thought.

Lyndy tested the wheel. It had so much play that she could easily wobble it 15 degrees either side, without affecting the course of direction. She pinched the skin around both her earlobes. Somehow, she’d lost a small earring in the previous night’s scuffle. Fortunately, it was gold-plated, not actual gold.

“I just gotta say, the suspension in this car is so soft and pliable. It’s like riding on an inflatable swan at the waterpark.”

“I hate you,” replied Chan.

Lyndy sighed. “Dude. I said I was sorry like ten times already. I didn’t know there was a crazy underwear-man hiding in the weeds.” She used as meek and genuine a voice as she could muster.

“Melinda Evangeline Martinez, I don’t give a frog’s fat ass how sorry you think you  are. I signal to you the number four. There are four different style boot prints on the ground. You have the fancy gun and decent aim; shoot the bastard in the foot or the damned arm.”

Oh boy, all three names. This was serious.

“But you’re always pressing me to use the Beretta only as a last resort. You hate it when I’m acting trigger happy.”

“I could have been killed!”

“Uffdah.” Lyndy briefly shut her eyes, taking a breather. She slid the lipstick case back in her purse. “God. To work at CBB you have to have skin like a rhinoceros.”

“Why is that?”

“Cause you freakin yell at people for having unexpected accidents, as well as honest mistakes, misunderstandings and anything else in between. You overreact to everything. That’s why. This is exactly how you pushed away …” Lyndy stopped abruptly.

“Finish that sentence,” demanded Chan, thrusting the soaked shirt in Lyndy’s direction. “Me and Richard offer you a job when no one else will take you! You are free to quit any day.”

“Never mind,” she muttered softly. She was thinking about her family.

There was a time when The Spitfire wore bright colors, when her stockings weren’t black and her skirts charcoal grey.

 

1 hour later …

Back at Riverview trailer park, tempers had cooled just a little. Still, the two were not on speaking terms. Lyndy submerged the end of metal tweezers in a container of high proof vodka, holding them there for a count of ten. A layer of glass fragments caked the bottom.

Once the ends had been sterilized, Lyndy concentrated on gently plucking the last few shards from Chan’s head wound. It took the better part of the morning.

Then, keys in hand, she shuttled him to the clinic in Victorville for stitches. Lyndy tried apologizing once more before she left, but Chan was too grumpy to acknowledge her. In a way she was grateful for his silence; he hadn’t asked who assaulted Wallach.

There was only one action left with a snowball’s chance of elevating Chan’s mood, and it was finding Evan. To Chan, it represented a business loss numbering in the thousands of dollars, and a promise to the Lovelace Corporation to never entangle them in bad lending decisions. But for Lyndy, this had evolved into being more about defending her reputation. The five days was almost up. Come hell or high water, she needed to rally.

20,000 square miles. One person.

 

From a payphone, Lyndy dialed the JBR ranch, leaving a message for Ted. She at least wanted him to know she’d caught the thieves, and done everything she could, in case Rob Albright took his time getting around to it. Then she drove the Jeep across town to Tammy Ward’s house, hoping to see how her recovery was going.

The Wards occupied a one-story bungalow, on a quiet street only a short walk from the Barstow depot. Their pinkish craftsman-style home had once been built and lived-in by railroad executives. That was near 60 years in the past. With the intervening decades, the neighborhood had taken on a more blue-collar characteristic, along with the rest of Barstow.

The presence of a Peterbilt semi-truck indicated Daryll was at home. After ringing the doorbell, he let Lyndy in. Tammy was propped on the living room couch with her neck supported by one of those goofy foam braces. She had the TV tuned to her favorite soap operas, their drooling rottweiler—Mr. Snuggles—sharing the rug by her feet.

Although reportedly in a great deal of pain, the accident had done nothing to dampen Tammy’s spirits, and it seemed she was enjoying time off work. Lyndy felt exhausted, but seeing Tammy like this brought a smile to her face.

In a flurry of words and vigorous hand gestures, Tammy explained the backstory. A man on vacation had stopped at Sancho’s stand late in the day. He remarked about her green Buick in the lot. Though standing only five feet tall and soft-spoken, he had an ego to match any man. That’s when things started going off the rails.

Tammy informed the stranger her newly built pro-street car was unbeaten in its class at the drag strip. Even with a language barrier, the stranger began talking tough, and boasted that if even a single turn were included in the race circuit, then his Datsun could easily smoke Tammy’s muscle car. Then he launched into a tirade about the laziness of American car manufacturers.

Maybe it was a Route-66 thing, or a matter of town pride, but everyone’s patience had been tried; Tammy reluctantly agreed to a competition, mainly to avoid a budding fistfight between the stranger and jingoistic passers-by. From there, circumstances escalated quickly as the Parker’s got involved, and Granville Jackson—attempting to calm the crowd—was told to take a hike. That explained the lack of law enforcement.

What the bellicose tourist didn’t know, was Tammy’s Buick was a high compression model, running leaded fuel and sans any California smog equipment. The rented Datsun was likely to be California smog legal, so it was already facing a disadvantage. There was no explaining this subtlety considering the language barrier.

Lyndy arrived soon after, witnessing the crash. The Datsun suffered a failure of the linkage connecting the rack and pinion steering. The stranger considered it sabotage. In the wreck he suffered a broken ankle and a blow to the head, as his car flipped 90 degrees. But it was his nationalistic pride that was totaled. Tammy suffered whiplash, sustaining no lasting damage, even when taking out a mailbox, leveling two small trees and a light pole.

 

Later in Amboy …

Lyndy napped away the afternoon sprawled atop her double bed, no sheets or anything. And over the course of a day the tin-can like Airstream typically became uncomfortable, but she was far too tired to notice. As evening approached, she dressed herself in old tennis shorts and a cotton tank top—expecting no visitors—and emerged to relax on the patio.

The patio itself included a metal table and chairs, which she positioned in the shadow of her sole palo-verde tree. This vantage had been strategically placed to overlook her snaking driveway. Upon the mesh table Lyndy set out her transistor radio, as well as an open bottle of Herradura and Sands Hotel-themed shot glass.

Every hour or two, a locomotive would blow its horn where it crossed the highway, then climb Cadiz grade until obscured in haze.

Lyndy twirled the empty shot glass by its edge, pivoting on the table top. Peering through the tequila bottle, she could see the outline of the ghostly town and Roy’s sign, tinted orange. Ordinarily, she would have been savoring the top shelf tequila, but this time she needed her mind to perform. Sleep deprivation had taken toll enough.

She’d interviewed a number of persons, some shiftier than others. It should have been enough for any bail enforcement case. It was Julia Russell, the eccentric Good Samaritan and modern archaeologist, whose words had left the greatest impact. She described the supply chain necessary to stock a constellation of army forts, established to subdue the local Indian tribes, defend against Mexican forces, and quote “maintain peace” in the desert.

With all that had happened and each passing day, the trail was growing colder.

The Spitfire was in the process of painting her toenails, a cotton ball wedged between each toe, when she noticed the green and white Bronco ascending the driveway; it was tailed by dust. From the look and sound of the official county vehicle, she knew the driver, and she wasn’t at all happy to see them. At last, she poured herself a capful of the liquor.

Deliberately, Lyndy propped her bare feet on the table to dry. Her shorts revealed a lot of leg in this position. Her top showed a lot of upper body also. Lyndy ran her fingers over the surface of her tan thigh and down to the ankle, testing for stubble.

Whatever happens, don’t let him in.

No sound is quite like radial truck tires on gravel roads. After navigating her tightly arced turning circle, Dale put it in park. He quickly removed and flung his cowboy hat to the back. As he stepped out, slamming the door, his big stupid belt buckle was already glinting in the sun.

He stood there looking somber, clutching something made of thin metal in his left hand.

“I uh … heard you been out bustin some heads again,” spoke Lyndy, tipping the contents of the glass into her mouth and swallowing hard.

“Yeah, well Mr. Wallach won’t be bothering us no more. And also, I bet you can safely add his name to the long list of people Will Rogers never met.”

He was standing twenty feet away, languishing, and she hoped the stink of nail polish, plus her obvious scorn would hold him at that distance. Dale tossed the metal sign up to the porch, then stuck his hands in his pockets. Without reading it, she knew what it said.

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-16

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Lyndy Life Tip #169: To scare away door-to-door sales people and religious folk, wear an old derby hat, a pink motel bath robe and green flip-flops when answering the front door. The best kind of hats are ones where it looks like a peacock landed on your head. Trust me, they’ll find a reason to move along.

Mr. Chan busied himself preparing oolong tea, while The Spitfire quietly observed from a reclined position on the built-in. Chan’s four-burner stove hissed like a snake, as invisible gases escaped the open valve. But it quickly morphed to a pointed blue flame when touched with a paper match.

Opening the cupboards above the sink, Chan selected a ruby painted tin, roughly 2 inches square, with nothing but Chinese characters marking all sides. Meanwhile he filled a copper teakettle with cool water.

Chan didn’t need inquire if Lyndy wanted tea, there was no choice in the matter. If he made tea in your presence then you were darn well having tea. Hector once warned the concoctions in the reddish box could make you talk like a drunkard, revealing close personal fears one would never divulge otherwise.

Drawing aside curtains, Lyndy peered through the window at the night sky. She could see the Milky Way streaming overhead, all blotchy and brown, outlined in black by the silhouettes of cottonwoods. She extended her arms and laced fingers in a massive yawn.

“You have another person’s blood staining your clothes,” Chan said abruptly. “You know that woman?”

“I know,” she replied.

“Care to explain?”

Lyndy exhaled. “You know who Matt Wallach is?”

“Never hear of him,” said Chan, without turning around. He was measuring level scoops of loose leaf and depositing them into a mesh infuser.

“Well he certainly knows about us,” said Lyndy. “He’s a kingpin of sorts; we put some of his best cronies in jail. In fact, he mentions you by name.”

“Well I’m famous round here.”

“You kinda are,” agreed Lyndy. “Anyways, point being, one of his side hobbies is rustling cows from the JBR herd. They got thousands of acres and only a handful of cowboys, so it’s easy pickings. I believe I figured out where they’re camped right now.”

While the kettle simmered, Chan rotated one-eighty, resting his palms on his stomach. “So, what this caper have to do with us, or why you been in a fight?

“I’m gettin to that part, if you’ll allow me to continue. See I ran into his goons today on 66, when they tried to abduct me—fun group. What is it Sheriff Jackson would say? Them boys are clowns that aren’t funny. Anyways, I’m working on a theory that may end up leading us directly to Evan Stone.” Lyndy related her chance encounter with Matt Wallach, the man who claimed to be Evan’s brother, and how he wanted her to lay off on the hunt.

“What in the wide world of sports?” Chan declared, scratching the tuft of graying hairs on his chin.

“Why is that so weird?” Lyndy inquired.

“Evan never once tell me he have siblings. He distinctly mention Stone was a family surname—that one is on all his court documents.”

Lyndy shrugged. “Remember how I kept thinking his name sounds made up, like an actor’s name? Or could he mean they are brothers in a gang sense?”

To steep the tea, Chan submerged his mesh strainer contraption in the steaming pot, dipping it up and down and counting. He also seemed to be entertaining Lyndy’s idea.

“Anyway, I assume since Wallach’s wings are clipped from being on parole, he had to think of something he could make money at without leaving the county. Who would suspect him of stealing cattle?”

Chan sniffed at the tea. “Meh. That a pretty weak theory to me. Any other reason you think this Wallach scumbag is connected?”

“Because Deputy Keynes found a dented wheel cover from an early International Scout at the site where some of the cows were loaded up. And I saw an early Scout, which would have had that same type, out at Wallach’s bar in San Bernardino.

“Was it missing the wheel cover?”

Lyndy’s face took on a guilty expression. “Regrettably, I didn’t look carefully enough.”

Given this trailer had been occupied by Mr. Chan for decades, one might expect the dwelling to accumulate a handful of Chinese elements, but there were none. Instead it retained the generic trimmings from the day it was bought, sometime in the late fifties.

“How this lead us to Evan?” questioned Chan, passing her a handle-less porcelain tea cup. “Or putting another way, is anybody willing to pay us bounty if you catch these cow stealers?”

“Uh. The JBR should cover my fees,” The Spitfire asserted.

Oh, sure they will. Cause it wouldn’t be Ted Crawford, who ironically offered to pay but somebody turned it down.

“And even if they don’t, Wallach knows where his quote-unquote younger brother is now. I’m positive. He acted so dodgy, Evan must still be in the county. Which means Wallach or his henchmen are probably feeding him supplies. So, I say we sneak up on these dudes just prior to first light; scare the bejesus out of them. Then see if we can get ‘em to cough up Evan’s hiding place.”

Chan passed a palm across his forehead, smoothing away sweat. “You know, my mind must be slipping from fever, cause you actually starting to make sense.”

“I always make sense. You just don’t listen,” said Lyndy. And seeing as he had no further pressing questions, she was confident her boss would be tagging along; this time she knew she could use backup.

Lyndy cradled her tea against her chest, allowing it a few moments to cool. She tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling of the trailer. It had a skylight you could crank open, with a plastic fan to expel the heat. Chan returned to the kitchen and started using the corner of his fridge to scratch his back, shimmying up and down like a contented bear.

“Man, I’m so hungry I bet I could eat a whole pizza by myself,” Lyndy bemoaned.

“Huh. Huh. Huh. I’ve seen you eat. I’m sure you can.”

“Chan, I need to ask you a semi-serious question, and I want you to be truthful with your answer.”

“Alrighty, this is starting out weird,” he muttered. Uneasily, Chan took a sip of tea from his identical mug.

Lyndy angled her head to face Chan, resting her cheek against her shoulder. “Come on dude, I’m not foolin’ around anymore.”

“I never tell lies woman.”

“Then do I have … you know … a decent body but a messed-up face?”

Chan’s expression exhibited amusement. “For shit sake Melinda, how would I know,” he chuckled. “Can’t we talk about sports or something?”

“You hate sports. But you are a guy—even though you’re like a million years old.”

“Dammit, we’ve been over this time and again. I am not your shrink. This sound like conversation best saved for ladies at the hair salon.”

“Ever see a cover on a grocery store fashion mag? Ain’t nobody on those looks remotely like me. It’s all a bunch of Farrah Fawcetts.”

Blaming her insecurity on the bogus fashion industry seemed plausible, and less embarrassing than admitting a cad like Wallach could hurt her feelings.

Lyndy shut her eyes. “I wish I was gorgeous like Cathy Cookson.”

“Woman, you are insufferable. You’re falling into a carefully laid trap of beauty industry. That’s just what they want you to think. But physical attractiveness is chiefly a curse.” declared Chan. “There are whole books written on this very subject!”

“I disagree; plus it sounds like something an ugly person would say.”

Chan squinted, pressing his fingertips over his eyeballs and inhaling. Henceforth, his respiration became audible. She feared he would promptly eject her from the trailer park. In anticipation, Lyndy took another fast drink of tea, reaching for her purse.

But unexpectedly, his face softened, taking on a look of newfound enlightenment. Chan rested his hands on the rim of the sink. Then he eyed the purse, noticing it was sagging from the weight of steel inside.

“Is that a new purse?”

“Yes, it is.” Lyndy lifted it up to show off. It had a front pattern reminiscent of a fine Navajo rug, an elaborate fringe hanging all along the bottom. “I bought it for my birthday. I’ve had it a week but you didn’t notice. See how pretty? Cost a hundred dollars out of a catalog. It’s like Italian calfskin leather or some such.”

“Huh. Huh. Huh. You are truly terrible with money. What you keep in there anyway?”

“I dunno. Normal girl stuff I suppose. What do you think?” Lyndy grinned, about to rattle off a list.

Chan held up his palm flat. “No wait! Please don’t ever elaborate on contents. I will stop asking stupid questions from now on.” Chan turned back to the kitchen sink. “Look, that purse reminds me of something. You say I never speak about old China. Well now I tell you one story about China you haven’t heard before.”

“Go on,” whispered Lyndy.

“This one begins when I was ‘bout fifteen years old. There was an exceptional young lady in my village. She probably sixteen or seventeen. She was a talented and strong dancer, the ballerina kind. I see her at sunrise, walking or riding bike to the dance school; she move as if gravity have no effect. Ever see a person like that? Bottom line, in the looks department, she was entirely plain. Not particularly tall, kind of lean body and straight hair. If forced to describe, maybe 5 or 6 on scale of 10. There dozens of girls around prettier. But every teenage boy in my village have crush on this girl. She was confident and clever, and pleasant to be with. A kind of spirit she had. She even speak to me on occasion and tease me, probably for being fat. I was too shy to conceive of anything funny to say back; I fantasize about her though. Then one day she receive a scholarship award, from the Communist Party, to study dance at a prestigious school in Russia. Her parents were so delighted, of course. They boast about it to everyone. Her mother and father talk about it so much, that people start avoiding them. That girl gone for one year and then she return home permanently. Turns out she get life-altering injury at the school. I don’t remember exactly what happened, but they say she have no chance to be a competitive dancer. In those days you get a twisted ankle and they kick you out of program. So who knows the real truth. Point is, when she came back home she was totally different; it like she had her personality removed. She sink into despair, never joke anymore. She never spoke to me. Nothing happen to her face, and she was only a year older, but she seemed depleted. I doubt if anyone wanted to marry her. She probably live under her parents roof whole life.”

Lyndy shook out a menthol cigarette and lit it with a Bic. She offered an extra to Chan, but he declined. Then she started puffing with her head tilted back. “What is the moral of your depressing story?” she inquired.

“When we find out you were sent away to Pinegate—all those bad things happen—myself, Richard Lovelace and Hector confer about it. Of course, we were planning to rescue you, but also, we debate who you would become when you re-emerge. Would you still be the same woman? Richard and I were certain you would change. You proved us wrong. Instead, you come back stronger and more cunning, but still our Spitfire.”

 

As the last of the bright stars melted into a uniformity of twilight, Lyndy and Mr. Chan prepared to apprehend the JBR cattle thieves. They did this without communication, having worked together dozens of times, each knowing what they had to do.

Lyndy gripped the Beretta loosely in her hand, hoping Wallach’s men had acquired newfound prudence from the day before. She would have preferred to catch a few more z’s—and not on a crummy sofa—but recognized the best time to strike anybody was a half hour before sunup. Most individuals, especially those inclined to commit crimes, wouldn’t be awake. Average criminals are lazy. And with first light of dawn, the benefit was you didn’t have to fumble around in complete darkness, stepping on cacti and scorpions.

She glanced over at Chan, as he pressed down the trunk lid of his Cadillac.

In spite of advanced training in weaponry at a monastery, Chan preferred the old-fashioned simplicity of a Louisville Slugger; thing was covered in dents. And like a player in a dugout preparing to swing for the upper deck, he carried this macho chunk of hickory slung on his left shoulder.

Waiting patiently in the saddle, massaging the shoulders of a Hoss-sized brown quarter horse, sat ranch foreman Rob Albright. He was Ted’s boss, and looked perfectly content to have CBB employees doing his dirty work. In fact, for a Texas range boss he was downright cheery. His horse was calm too, occasionally resting a foot or flicking ears when flies became too bothersome.

What mattered was Ted’s good name had been restored, and he could resume his normal duties.

To get here, Lyndy and Chan had taken a smooth graded power line road. It was the way she should have come the first time, avoiding all the sand traps and ruts on the old wagon road. To disguise their approach, they ditched the Caddy a mile from the springs.

The morning air felt dry, not overly hot, as a soft golden light bathed the valley ahead. Above them, The Spitfire could see more jet planes racing across the landscape, on their way to hipper destinations like LA and San Diego. So far away they must be, there were no audible noises, only faint wing tip lights blinking on and off.

“Think I saw an episode of Bonanza like this,” commented Chan. He was wearing one of his rayon Hawaiian shirts, Hilo-Hattie style, perfect for reeling in stubborn fugitives on those hot summer nights.

Like a coyote and badger alliance, The Spitfire’s task was always to go down the hole and scare up the prey. Chan’s job was to whack fleeing prey, because well, the coyote was simply too large to go down the hole.

Walking side-by-side, small birds were chirping, and rays of yellow sun crowned the sawtooth ridges on distant mountain ranges. Mr. Albright followed them, leaving an eighth mile gap between.

The Mojave road curved around the base of two hills, marking the source of Marl Springs, one of the critical, if not most important watering holes on the entire route.

Minutes later, nearing the encampment, they found the area was still in shadow. Lyndy and Chan paused fifty yards away. As she surmised, parked on a slope and crushing native vegetation was a dually Ford truck, hitched to a lengthy stock trailer; one of the ones she’d seen the night before.

The tent was a hodge-podge of blue tarps stitched together with rope and clothespins. Though crude, it exhibited a kind of ingenuity akin to a 1930’s hobo camp. Unfortunately, its unconventional material also made it opaque. Their campfire ring still lightly smoldered, she guessed due to hot coals leftover from supper. A snubbed but half-smoked cigar rested in the crevasse between stones.

Lyndy approached gingerly, consciously suppressing any sounds of her footsteps.  Looking back at Chan, he gave a subtle nod, encouraging her to move closer to the tent. She continued to tip-toe until she was within 10 yards, then took up a shooting stance. She placed one cool finger to the side of the trigger guard and flicked the safety.

With two grubby digits of her left hand planted in her mouth, Lyndy produced an ear drum shattering whistle that would give a hotel smoke alarm a run for its money.

“Hands up! Everybody outta there! I’ll shoot!” she yelled. After a pause, and some rustling noises she added, “Don’t waste no time. Doesn’t matter if you’re indecent. I’ve seen small ones before.”

“Okay,” came a reply, the voice belonging to a middle-aged man.

In a rush the entry flap jerked stiffly back and forth, finally coming loose as a clothespin snapped apart. The first man, one who looked like a gray-haired goat herder came forward, greeting the early morning with ripped jeans, a stained u-neck undershirt and dour facial expression. His feet were bare, and he cursed the pebbly ground as he walked. He was followed closely by his taller friend, the scary one looking maniacal as before, mustache untrimmed and nothing but hatred filling his eyeballs. He was the one who once uttered, “don’t scream”. His right hand was encircled by white bandage.

Where was the third man? And why were they seemingly already clothed?

The men stood with empty hands raised, in front of the tent, looking rather spent. Lyndy glanced over to Chan. He extended an arm to the side, with four fingers raised.

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-15

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Lyndy Life Tip #168: A statement oftentimes attributed to Enzo Ferrari is “horsepower sells cars, but torque wins races.” Don’t believe it. It sounds like one of those BS quotes the person never actually said. And if true, why didn’t he fit a diesel two-stroke in the Dino?

The Spitfire snaked her way to the front of an agitated Barstow crowd, crouching low to remain discrete. Once there, she had a much clearer view of Tammy Ward, looking calm and composed at the wheel of her green Buick. Mrs. Ward had one fist on the Hurst shifter, the other at the six-o-clock position on the steering. Being in the left lane, the fellow in the Datsun was partly obscured; he appeared small in stature, with close-cropped black hair. She might have guessed he was Japanese, but it was hard to tell at such distances.

There were plenty of reasons for Tammy to be calm. She had racing experience, and her big block engine was assembled by her husband Darrel, intended to go fast in a straight line. The only requirements of the driver were steady, clean shifts and nerves of steel. On the other hand, the little Datsun was lighter, more aerodynamic and newer, with a spiffier paint job to match.

Lyndy popped her head up and down like an anxious prairie dog, scanning the crowd for the unmistakable profile of Mr. Chan, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Deep shadows stretched across the pavement. Though late in the afternoon, the atmosphere felt muggy, the onlookers unsettled, with a constant murmuring. A smell of exhaust gases permeated, like perfume signature of carbureted engines.

Amongst the crowd were children, some of them in school clothes—one gripping the handle to a red wagon. Hopefully they were not in for a dose of carnage.

It wasn’t clear how they were planning to start the race, until Lyndy noticed the pinup figure of Cathy Cookson, strutting in white heels to the centerline of 66. She held two checkered handkerchiefs, one dangling from each hand. Her ruby red fingernails could be clearly seen, contrasting with the black and white pattern.

“Blondie? You’ve got to be kidding me,” mouthed Lyndy. Nothing says hillbilly like a flag girl still in her waitress uniform, starting a street race. Like always, the blue dress was a size too small, her golden hair in curls so tightly wound and perfect you’d swear it was a wig.

Lyndy watched as Cathy leaned in, resting fingertips and half her bust on the Buick door, while conversing with Tammy. They were too far away, and the crowd too rowdy, to overhear the conversation. A moment later, miss Cookson poised herself like a decorative statuette in the road. She turned to lock eyes with a man in a business suit, standing at the sidewalk; that man was mouthing instructions. Lyndy recognized him as Big Jeff Parker, owner of the only Chevy dealership in town; he was part owner in The Vanishing Point syndicate as well. Mr. Parker was holding the stopwatch. Standing ten feet away, she spotted his son Todd, shakily loading blank cartridges into a 38 caliber S&W.

“Wow, somebody should write a country song to commemorate this day,” thought Lyndy.

Cathy shouted to both drivers, repeating the rules of the race. Though Lyndy couldn’t hear, by lip reading and Cathy’s exaggerated hand motions, she got the idea the drivers were to turn around at L-street, then come back to the starting line. Jeff Parker knew the distance to the turnaround point, so by using a stopwatch he could check if someone set an impossibly fast time from cheating.

Blondie was fully in her element, smiling to the crowd like she was standing atop a damned parade float. But with the race about to begin, she suddenly faced Lyndy’s direction, her smile quickly melting away. She smacked her lips, glaring with conceit for several seconds. Likely no one else noticed the challenge, but Lyndy did. The Spitfire stared right back without flinching.

“Yes Cathy, thanks for stealing like five or six of my boyfriends over the years.”

Then Cathy raised her arms sharply, lifting both handkerchiefs in the process. The engines revved louder, Tammy’s Buick growling and snarling like a caged beast.

It was easy to be caught up in the enthusiasm, but behind her, an ongoing conversation was out of step with the other murmurs. This dialog was in broken Spanish, and Lyndy nearly tuned it out, until she heard the curious phrase: “La Fierabrosa.”

Two men were involved in a heated exchange but being careful not to attract attention. They were using the Spanish language to talk in code, a sneaky tactic Uncle Octavio and Aunt Rose were experts at, knowing Lyndy and her brother were raised in the American foster care system.

Here’s a fun fact: humans have a field of vision near 120-degrees, which is respectable. On the other hand, your average dairy cow has a range closer to 300-degrees, meaning their only blind spot is directly at the rear; it helps having bulbous eyes on the side of your head.

Lyndy stood on her toes, taking a casual glance in the direction of the Shasta C-store. Being tangential to the men, it allowed her to briefly gather a sense of their mugs. Based on accents and appearance, they were American; she guessed bikers from central or west Texas. Both had mustaches. One of them had a face so ugly he’d make a Morey eel blush.

“But I want to see that chubby girl race,” one of them was arguing.

The other fellow replied that the sun would be down, and they would be setting up camp in total darkness, again.

“We should camp somewhere else tonight,” suggested the first one.

“No way, we need to be at the guzzler. Those were our instructions; wait at the springs with los abrevaderos.”

A synapse fired in Lyndy’s mind; they meant animal troughs.

“Be careful. It’s like grabbing a snapping turtle with ungloved hands,” warned the first one.

BANG!

The crack of a .38 at close range started The Spitfire, testing her ear drums. She should have known it was coming. Cathy had dropped both her arms and was twirling the flags, the crowd suddenly cheering. Screeching tires showered the spectator area with flecks of rubber as smoke fogged the line. Tammy narrowly avoided a burnout, and Cathy was engulfed, quickly vanishing into whiteness like a witch.

The GSX then rocketed from the line, engine roaring. Meanwhile the Datsun launched with a lot less drama, emitting a robotic whir like it was powered by an oversize, evil dental drill. The crowd kept shouting at high volume.

A split second later Lyndy felt a warm hand, fingers big as polish sausages, covering her lips. Another arm reached around her waist, the hand gripping her rib cage with crushing force. Her feet were lifted off the ground six inches, purse dangling by the strap.

“Don’t scream,” growled the man.

Seeing the controlled manner in which that car left the line changed everything.

The Spitfire had no intention of screaming. Though logic dictated grave danger, she had only one thought: “Can it really be that a Japanese vehicle would smoke an American muscle car? One with practically a third less horsepower?”

Maybe that power-to-weight ratio thing had some truth behind it.

The Datsun indeed gained ground at a startling pace, pulling even with Tammy’s Buick, and holding. Like everyone, Lyndy assumed it was going to be a long, nail-biting race.

Then came one of the most uncomfortable noises Lyndy ever heard in her life, worse than a bone snapping. It was a metallic clunk, followed by a crunching that indicated gears disintegrating. The Datsun careened across the center median, having become a projectile on a collision course with the Buick. Tammy was focused on accelerating and shifting gears. The Datsun rammed hard into her door panel, bouncing up and flipping. Debris hurled into the air.

Meanwhile Tammy was shoved out of her lane and onto the curb; you could see her struggling with the wheel to maintain control while knocking down road signs and leveling small trees. Metal car parts and fluids darkened the pavement. Lyndy’s final glimpse was the Datsun, balanced on the driver’s door, smoke rising from its battered hulk.

Then a man’s face blocked her view. He had cloudy hazel eyes—like those border collies with the weird speckled eyeballs—and grayish hair down to his waist, giving him a goat-herder appearance. In his hands he was unwrapping a silver strip of duct tape from a roll. He had the menacing grin thing down, revealing just a hint of yellow teeth. He angled his head to the west. The one holding her tightened his grip on her ribs, ready to start carrying Lyndy like a roll of carpet.

Chaos abounded; Lyndy struggled for air. The surrounding crowd stampeded to the scene of the accident, no one even noticing her attackers.

The man with the tape stepped forward, grabbing a fist full of Lyndy’s black hair and looking her in the eyes. Lyndy winced in discomfort. The way he spoke was deliberate, almost revealing an impediment; he had not been one of the ones arguing before, meaning there was a third henchman somewhere.

“Mister … Wallach … couldn’t … be … here… but … he …  sends … his … regards … from … Loma … Linda.”

From a hospital?

Lyndy wanted to respond, but she had no air to speak. Instead she flung her head as hard as possible into the nose of the man facing her, delivering the stiffest headbutt she’d ever landed. She knew it was effective, because blood splattered her shirt, his clothes, and even got in her eyes.

The man with the long hair backpedaled, covering his broken nose with his palms. As he retreated Lyndy raised her legs, delivering a sharp blow to his stomach with her boots. At the same time, she squirmed, feeling the grip loosen where the hand covered her mouth. She had enough space to get her front teeth around the middle finger, chomping down like biting into a carrot.

The salty taste of blood exploded across her tongue, as she plummeted to the ground.

Lyndy inhaled as deeply as she could. She felt anger rising. Now facing the man she’d bit, she kept her head low, while he swung a wild punch. She rammed him in the waist with her shoulder, knocking his legs out and causing him to fall on his hip. Then grabbing his shirt, she lifted his upper body and punched him in the groin.

“Probably better for this world if you don’t have children,” she declared.

Knowing instinctively the goat herder would try and stick her with a knife, Lyndy rose in a round house kick and nailed him in the forearm. A switchblade landed on the bare pavement.

The last man, tallest of the three, didn’t want anything to do with The Spitfire. He was already absconding from the scene.

Noticing it was in the open, Lyndy dove on the white leather purse. She popped up with the Beretta in her hands, but all three men had their back to her, already weaving into the mass of people in the aftermath.

There were too many bystanders to even contemplate firing. Just having the pistol in her grasp made her uncomfortable, so she quickly shoved it away. She focused on trying to ID what kind of vehicle they departed in.

Her next worried thought was about Tammy, praying she was okay.

Lyndy started hurrying to the location where Tammy had veered off 66, all the while desperately searching for any sign of Wallach’s goons. She never spotted the trio again, but several heavy-duty pickups turned east onto Barstow Road. They’d be setting up camp in the darkness; it seemed she must know where.

For once, she actually wanted to confer with Chan.

 

30 minutes later …

Her watch read a quarter to eight when Lyndy rolled off the asphalt and into the entrance for Riverview Mobile Home Park. Their art deco style “Trailers For Rent” sign had lights aimed from below, but the bulbs all burned out and nobody bothered to replace them.

Her mind was still swirling, and hyper-vigilant. It was like that after every fight.

Lyndy remembered walking here with her brother, holding lit sparklers; how the narrow streets were once coated in pea gravel, and happy people cooked hotdogs on weber grills. But now most spots even the gravel was missing, leaving bare earth—even rocks were abandoning this place.

But Chan liked living here. His plain-Jane trailer was all the way to the back, inconspicuous. His name wasn’t in the directory, nor did it adorn the mailbox. Some said Chan wasn’t even his real surname. He parked the white Cadillac under a shaggy willow tree, tires resting on a bed of dead leaves. It was there.

A stand of cottonwoods separated the trailer park from the bone-dry wash of the Mojave River. Like Lyndy, Chan had a small sitting area behind his trailer, shaded by the trees; it was a place for him to smoke cigars or drink tea. This patio faced a barren levy and could not be viewed from any public road. That was the way Chan intended it; he had a lot of enemies.

Even with this abundant discretion, Chan still slept with his windows open. In the desert you had to make compromises. It was early for him or anyone to have gone to bed, but his windows were open, and lights off. If you opened windows on both sides of a single-wide, then night air could easily circulate across your bed, making it feel at least five degrees cooler.

Lyndy shut off her motor. For a moment, she listened to a symphony of chirping crickets, and the occasional ribbit of a solitary frog.

No interior light came on, but it didn’t mean Chan wasn’t awake and alert.

Lyndy hopped down, pressing the door shut. Then she snuck around the back of the trailer, pushing aside weeds and bushes. Silently, she crept up to one of the bedroom windows. A radio was on, but tuned only to soft static.

“Psst. Hey Chan, you awake?” whispered Lyndy.

She heard rustling from inside, and something massive turning over, causing the bedsprings to creak.

“Hey Chan, are you awake?” repeated Lyndy, louder this time.

“Who’s out there?” replied Chan.

Lyndy could see an outline now, of Mr. Chan upright in bed, clutching either a shotgun or a skinny baseball bat.

“It’s Lyndy. Don’t shoot or nothin!”

She heard a groan, followed by a discouraged sigh. “Melinda, god damn you! You batshit crazy … [fill in your own insensitive remark here. It’s like a mad lib]. Why can’t you knock on a screen door like a normal person?”

“Just let me in okay. We need to talk.”

Chan grunted. “Fine. I put on pants,” he grumbled. Apparently, he’d been lying there on his bed in the nude. Thankfully, Lyndy was able to look away before the light came on. Of course, when temps climbed into the triple digits it wasn’t uncommon for folks to sleep this way. Some people were even known to sleep outside, naked on a cot.

Lyndy picked her way back to the front.

At the door, Chan appeared cranky, but at least he’d put on a man’s undershirt and flannel pajama bottoms.

“Why you not answer a god damn phone when I call you!” scolded Chan.

“I ain’t been home, that’s why.” Lyndy folded her arms. “How come you’re not at the office?”

Chan wiped his forehead on his elbow. “Honestly, it was getting unbearable, too hot to breathe. No fan built by man turn fast enough to cool that Quonset hut. So I come home early to listen to Dodgers, and somehow, I fall asleep.”

“Well that’s a first,” muttered Lyndy, pushing her way into the trailer. “You missed a hell of a street race; folks be talking about that for years.”

“What happened?”

“Tammy competed against some dude in a Datsun, and both cars ended up in a heap on Main.”

“Tammy? Is that the lady who runs the taco hut?”

“Yep,” said Lyndy, opening Chan’s fridge and nabbing a Tecate. “Hey you got any edible food in this dump,” she asked, yanking the foil tab from the can.

“What this look like to you? A Denny’s?”

Lyndy was in the midst of chugging the beer. She had to pause to swallow, so she could then laugh aloud, foam running down her chin.

Chan tied the cord on his sagging pants. “And where is Evan Stone? You supposed to be looking for him.”

“I am looking for him.” Lyndy pointed to the east. “I checked half the dang desert today.”

“And?”

“And I found the cattle rustlers.”

Chan looked ready to blow his top.

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-13

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Chemehuevi Indians inhabited this region of the Mojave for centuries. To thrive in such an unforgiving environment, tribe members roamed over tens of miles, harvesting seeds and nuts along the way, or trapping small game, such as birds and rabbits. They succeeded where other tribes failed, making a home, in a destination most Americans considered intolerable, by adopting lifestyles in harmony and balance with the land. They didn’t have concrete dams, electrical transmission towers, an interstate highway system, or viaducts and Byzantine irrigation canals to depend on. Though it wouldn’t support a large population, the desert provided for nearly all their needs. And what they didn’t possess, they bartered for with other tribes.

Feeble and wilted against the tailgate, The Spitfire was wishing she could trade in her bag of tricks for theirs. She knew she would never be as confident as them, traveling alone and on foot in a place where virtually all God’s creatures wanted to poke, bite or sting you.

An ordinary settler lacking proper provisions didn’t stand a snowball’s chance. Thus, when the army came through in the 1850s, they set in place an elaborate and expensive supply chain, transporting goods by mule and wagon train all the way from Drum Barracks at the Port of Los Angeles. Later still, pioneers in Lanfair Valley depended upon the support of a now defunct Barnwell Branch railroad. A history lesson like this made you wonder about anyone who claimed to be living “off-grid” in the East Mojave; fat chance.

Unfortunately, the little burgundy Jeep wasn’t going to free itself anytime soon. When a vehicle has ordinary open differentials, four-wheel-drive is just another form of two-wheel-drive. The flashy chrome badge featuring “4-WD” was a marketing gimmick.

The bovine that put her in this predicament was still within sight, chewing cud and occasionally lifting his head to sniff the air in her direction. Decorating his bony flank, she could see a hint of a dark patch, probably the JBR brand. Every couple minutes one or the other of the cows would let out a moo; god only knew where they were obtaining water.

Lyndy exhaled, then started rolling up the sleeves of her cowgirl shirt. She undid every pearl snap save one, making it into more of a protective covering for virgin skin on her back. The mocha skin on her chest and shoulders could tolerate hours of direct exposure, but the areas of her back and hips not so much.

Lyndy Life Tip #166: If you own a shitty car that breaks down a lot—and believe me, AMC branded models break down a lot—go get yourself a decent pair of those red mechanic’s gloves and store em in the glove box at all times.

The Spitfire frisbeed her ball cap to the front seat. Lifting the cooler above her forehead, she allowed cold water to dribble over her face and neck, delighting in the sensation. Lines of dirt became evident on her arms. Between that and her newly modified outfit, she figured she could pass for an inebriated groupie at a summer music festival. And maybe later she’d regret wasting water, but these were desperate times.

At first the sand trap situation appeared hopeless. Her right rear tire had buried itself in a twelve-inch rut. Peeking under the bumper, she couldn’t see light nor slip a pinky beneath the axle tubes. The sand reached halfway up the diff cover, which was supporting the lion’s share of weight. Ironically, given its faults, the Jeep was mechanically sound. But from the look of things, it may take the remainder of the afternoon to un-stuck herself.  Lyndy wanted to slam her head into a bumper.

Her nose felt itchy from all the dust and Joshua tree pollen. Lyndy stretched an arm up to the cargo bed, seizing on a wad of loose napkins to blow it. As she did this, she glanced to the roll cage and army shovel. The last time somebody used that shovel was because they needed to take a number-2 in the backcountry. Hector had cemented in her mind a healthy fear of getting stranded out here, alone and exhausted with no one coming to the rescue. The same fate befell him on a few occasions, nearly costing his life.

Miserable, yet determined, The Spitfire began undoing the pin-buckle leather straps securing the shovel. She took a seat on the ground, legs folded in front of her, and commenced the process of scraping soil away from the axle.

Sometimes all it took was a familiar smell, or texture of an otherwise simple object, to conjure experiences with her late brother. Hector’s ghost was that way, intruding whenever you were least prepared. She could still hear his voice, imagine the things he would say, pronouncing every syllable in her head as he would. He had a macho way of speaking.

Lyndy continued scraping harder, faster, moving more dirt and filling in the ruts.

She remembered watching Hector. She was 17 years old, standing outside the trailer in the blistering sun. She had on cutoff shorts and a men’s undershirt, her abdomen partly uncovered. It must have been mid-afternoon, home early from school and she was chewing bubble gum, intermittently popping bubbles loudly with her tongue.

Hector was wearing black jeans and a denim shirt. One by one, he pressed bullets into a set of magazines for the Beretta. A brand of cowboy cigarette hung from his lips, and he removed it to speak. He gestured to his homemade targets.

“Listen to me Spitfire. There are big lies told in movies or books, make you expect you’ll be good at everything the first time you try. But that’s not how life works. You will not be good at everything the first time you try. You must be educated. You must practice. You must humbly learn from others, train, adapt and repeat.”

At the conclusion of his lecture, she knew he would ask her to shoot. But this day, like many others, she refused. His way was not hers.

 

Several hours later …

As soon as she got the Jeep rolling again, The Spitfire didn’t ever want to stop, even upon reaching solid ground. To heck with those suspicious tracks. She needed to execute a six-point turn just to get back headed the right direction.

Once her tires hit hot pavement, she shifted into fourth gear and punched it.

While driving with one fist on the wheel, The Spitfire applied balm to her cracking lips. Powdered sand had coated every inch of the dash, giving it a silvery sheen; the same could be said of Lyndy’s skin. For the most part her headache had subsided, but freshly taking its place were stomach cramps. Thoughts of those peanut butter sandwiches made her want to hurl.

It was such a straight shot between the twin ghost towns of Lanfair and Goffs, Lyndy could easily have driven with the steering wheel roped in place. Whereas Lanfair comprised nothing more than a few odd cement foundations, Goffs was marked by a stately abandoned relic, positioned south of the roadway. As with the depot at Kelso, the building had been architected in a mission style, with spacious covered porches, arched external supports and tan stucco walls.

It was the red clay tile roof which really made it stand out, because the walls were the color of adobe. Where its roof had started caving in, one could see arches, two small ones on either side plus a large one for the door. They sheltered what remained of the porches. By some miracle, generations of vandals and overnight campers had left the structure relatively untouched.

Someone, probably Dale, had once told Lyndy the crumbling building had been a regional schoolhouse, serving youths from both Lanfair and Goffs.

As Lyndy approached from the west, she spotted a familiar yellow rig stopped at the roadside. The “harmless” operator was nowhere to be seen though.

This chance meeting was both good and bad luck simultaneously, since Lyndy had been noodling how to actually confront Russ; she had yet to come up with a decisive plan.

Ever get that feeling somebody is trying a little too hard to act innocent?

You can’t ask someone straight-up if they’re involved in thievery. If Russ were just a common citizen, then accusing her of a crime would cause offense and ruin the relationship. And if anything, Lyndy needed more friends.

It was the first time stopping since getting stuck. Lyndy decided to stow the maroon Jeep on the opposite side of the road, leaving an eighth of a mile separating hers and Russ’s rig. With a new starter in place, getting going quickly shouldn’t be an issue; maintaining highway speed still would be.

Lyndy kept the tranny in gear. Before departing she slid the loaded Beretta in her purse.

Neglected gardens around the perimeter of the school had become overgrown with fern bushes and prickly cat claw. She had to choose a path carefully, pausing multiple times to free herself from stubborn thorns.

At the south end of the building, someone attempted to patch all the open window holes with plywood. Whoever they were, they cared enough to try to preserve this place. So much time had passed though, most of the wood had deteriorated and was falling away.

Through a knothole Lyndy peered inside. She could see a human figure standing in shadow, near the center of the room, while high narrow windows created shafts of light. The light highlighted strands of spider silk and dust flakes floating in the air.

Lyndy let her eyes adjust to the conditions. She still had the element of surprise. Julia Russell was concentrating, head down with one eye squinted shut and the other gazing in the top of an old-fashioned reporter’s camera. It was the twin-lens style popularized by Rollei, with the ground glass where the image formed.

Standing there in her floppy straw hat and faded overalls, she looked to Lyndy like one of those quirky ladies who make a living selling repainted Adirondack chairs at a county fair, and probably think raising alpacas on the side is a profitable hobby. Russ cradled the camera close against her chest as if it were a tiny hand puppet, and she was preparing to make it tell jokes. In summary, discovering Russ was the mastermind of a Mojave Desert cattle theft ring would be just the kind of plot twist this case needed.

Russ got off one snap of the shutter, and as she wound the lever for the next exposure a massive barn owl—Lyndy had not seen the thing she was photographing—decided it would tolerate the intrusion no longer. It took off in a flurry of dust and white down feathers, exiting through one of the larger gaps in the failing roof.

In this chaotic moment, Lyndy raised one corner of the plywood board to reveal herself.

“Lyndy!” Russ exclaimed, lowering her camera to waist level. “I didn’t hear you drive up.”

Strangely, she didn’t seem as caught off guard as Lyndy was expecting.

“Let me help you with that,” declared Russ, while rushing across the room.

“Sorry I startled your owl,” said Lyndy.

Russ shook her head. “I think it was the shutter snap that frightened it.”

“It’s funny. I don’t think I’ve ever worked so hard to get into a school,” remarked Lyndy.

Russ supported the rotting board, keeping it out of the way while Lyndy twisted her hair and ducked through the busted-out frame.

“Say, is your Jeep still running like a top?”

“Affirmative. And that’s the irritating part,” replied Lyndy with a frown. “It was more fun when I got to complain about it.” Once clear of all the broken glass, she started dusting off her jeans. “Groovy camera ya got there,” Lyndy added.

“Thanks.” Russ chuckled while looking Lyndy up and down. “I appreciate the unconventional look, but why no heels today?”

“Truth is, pretty only gets you so far in life—and that definitely applies to shoes,” said Lyndy with a shrug. “In the meantime, I’ve been having an unproductive few days to say the least. Noticed your parked car and thought I would come see what you’re up to.”

“Only my usual shenanigans,” said Russ, with a welcoming smile.

Lyndy grinned, folding her arms. “Same here. Dropped in on some white supremacists yesterday and got needlessly threatened with an acid attack. First time for that actually, so it was a milestone.”

Russ raised her eyebrows. “How on earth did that come up?”

Lyndy adjusted her purse and started exploring the empty classroom, extending her arms to swat away floating debris, likely containing asbestos. Tired floors creaked endlessly as she moved. At the same time, she related her encounter with Wallach in Lester’s bar. She was still peeved about it, which explained why she was spilling her guts to Russ again.

“That Neanderthal was probably bluffing,” commented Russ, while crouching to snap additional interior shots of the building. At one point, the camera field of view encompassed the spot Lyndy was occupying—and she knew her picture was being taken. She had not given Russ permission.

Lyndy was in the midst of rebuttoning her cowgirl shirt. “Darn it, I think my shirt has either bird or bat guano on it. And I planned to meet a cute boy later; very bad timing.” Lyndy continued to brush at the shirt, while Russ took pictures. “Thing is, I assumed Wallach was bluffing too. But what makes you say that?” Lyndy was curious. “I haven’t given you cause to believe that, have I?”

By twisting the elegant green metal knobs on her camera, Russ adjusted settings, then turned the lens back on The Spitfire. She hesitated, then crouched to take a different picture, ostensibly of floorboards. “Well, recall my husband was in the Navy. Don’t tell one of them to their face, but the Marines are like a sub-branch of the Navy. There are no combat medics in the Marines, because the Marines rely on medics from the Navy—and anyway they’re called Corpsmen not medics. Think he’d know that if he was in the Marines.”

Lyndy had another good idea. “Hey, can I show you a sketch of something?” she asked, removing the folded art paper from the front pocket of her purse. “It’s a bit of a Rorschach test: Just tell me the first thing that comes to mind.”

“My pleasure,” offered Russ. “I won’t charge you for opinions neither.” Russ slipped her camera back in its leather case as Lyndy passed her the paper.

It took only a momentary glance before Russ nodded. “I think it’s a hubcap from an International Scout model 80. I would guess a 65 or 66 model from the look of it. Those were one hell of a truck I’ll tell you. I drove one like that over Schofield Pass road in Colorado. It’s one of the most dangerous trails in the Rockies.”

“Damn,” said Lyndy. She kicked the floor.

“What’s a matter?” asked Russ.

“I saw an older International Scout yesterday, outside the bar. Except I don’t remember if it was missing a hubcap or not,” replied Lyndy.

Her and Russ were eye to eye.

“Do you remember what kind of front grill it had? Maybe try and picture it in your mind. Did it have the shiny chrome accents, like toaster slots, or was it an ordinary mesh style grill?”

Lyndy put her thumb on her chin and squinted. “I think it was plain, charcoal in color.”

“So that’s an early Scout. It fits. But I bet there’s a lot of Scouts out there, and most are missing a hubcap or two.”

Russ’s encyclopedic knowledge was impressive, and her kindly demeaner still didn’t seem like a façade. But it was time to skip to tough questions. The Spitfire pushed the hair from her cheeks and wiped beads of sweat from her forehead. She needed to observe Russ’s body language carefully.

Sometimes there’s simply no way to prevent a situation from turning awkward: like running into an old acquaintance in the grocery store, exchanging words, saying goodbye, and then running into them five minutes later in a different aisle.

“So Russ, I have an automotive riddle for you. What sort of vehicle has a 79-inch wheel base?” There followed an extended silence. Like a wide-eyed toddler, Lyndy tracked every subtle move Russ made, stopping only to blink. When it seemed time to fill the audible void, she tacked on, “For example, I measured 52 inches on my Jeep.”

Russ shifted her gaze up to the decaying ceiling and inhaled. “Only really heavy-duty commercial or farm machinery; could be a 1-ton Ford or GMC work truck fitted with custom axles. Or possibly a dump truck. I’m pretty vague on all those—I don’t sit around and memorize vehicle track widths in my spare time.”

“It’s a hobby of mine, but I don’t get to do it enough,” joked Lyndy.

“Where did you see that? You certainly seem determined today.”

“I’d rather not elaborate. I just need to find the driver, so I can ask them a few questions. I’ll leave it at that.”

“Fair enough,” said Russ. “Listen, I gotta change out a roll of film.” She indicated she needed to return to her vehicle, but it would be alright for Lyndy to follow.

Lyndy trailed Russ out to her yellow Jeep. Russ had a big white ice chest strapped in the back. “Want a cold beer?” she asked. She held up a bottle in offering, water beads dripping on the ground.

Never in Lyndy’s life had a domestic brew seemed so tempting. She was reaching for it when she noticed a colorful letter-size piece of paper stuffed between the spare tire and the frame. Something made her snatch it to check what it was. Once unrolled, she felt certain she had stumbled upon a clue.

Lyndy crinkled her nose. “Hey Russ, why the heck do you have a flier for the Maricopa County Feed and Livestock Show?” She held it up with both hands for Russ to see.

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-12

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Lyndy Life Tip #165: When exploring a desert ghost town on foot, never leave a plastic water jug unattended, especially if you spot a raven. They have a habit of poking a hole near the bottom edge, allowing all your water to escape, only to take a brief sip and bolt. 

The Spitfire flung her hat at the large black bird. “Hey, cut that out!” she shouted, violently shoeing him off. She could tell where he’d been pecking his sharp beak on her igloo cooler. He watched her with one beady eye, waiting until she was near striking distance, before nonchalantly spreading his wings and leaping from the roll bar. With two efficient flaps—graceful as a fairytale dragon—he was soaring high on a thermal.

She could hear his inner monologue: “Nice try, loser...”

Arriving at the Jeep, Lyndy rested her elbows atop the half-door, catching her breath. Evidently, she and corvus-corax were the only creatures loco enough to be active at the worst time of the day; no other feet on the ground, no wings in the air. All the rational species were sheltering underground in burrows, awaiting dusk. It was a tempting idea. And you know those creepy apocalypse movies where for some reason you’re the only human alive on earth but your hair still looks fabulous? This town was like that.

Lyndy gazed at the faded beer sign, perpetually twisting up and down in the wind. Then after five breaths, she slid the shaven-down key in the ignition slot, pushed in the clutch and set the Jeep in gear. Traveling northeast on Kelso-Cima road, her route paralleled the Union Pacific mainline.

In this world feelings of solitude don’t last forever. The Spitfire soon became aware of rumblings at her back, comparable to a herd of buffalo charging across a prairie. She turned her head to see. In the side mirror, above the warning about objects being closer than they appear, she spotted a train approaching, daytime running lamps marking the snout of the golden yellow locomotive. A shallow drainage ditch and copious amounts of rock ballast separated the steel rails from the paved roadbed.

Some people say 75 percent of the stuff they teach in school you’ll never use. But now for a question of physics and momentum: Could a little jeep outrun the goliath freight train—a diesel consist—weighing over half a million pounds? Lyndy shifted out of overdrive and floored it, just as the engineer yanked his mighty air horn.

They were battling the same foe: hot stagnant air, like running sprints with a sandwich board taped in front of your body. One vehicle harnessed a few thousand horsepower and the other perhaps 50—being optimistic; not nearly enough. That horn echoed like a trumpet from Revelations, almost as jarring to the eardrums.

Leaning forward, checking the speedo and the tach redline—she knew those two were a joke, yet she monitored them anyway. The trainman was surely taunting her, arms out the window, dipping a pin-striped hat in the air stream, flicking it up and down. Maybe he did it because he knew she was a pretty girl, or else he was bored and did this to everybody.

The Spitfire let her hair out, pitching the tie to the passenger floor. She ran her fingers through to make it wave like a flag in the wind.

If Chan or Lovelace would crack open the wallet a little, purchase a GT350, she would run away easily. Instead she was losing ground. That’s the way it goes some days. The train clattered on by, caboose gradually merging into the vanishing point. As the cacophony of railroad noise subsided, she could once again hear herself think, plus the din of an AM radio announcer. It was a live news broadcast, and the host was discussing a record breaking Southern California heat wave, warning people to stay indoors, check on elderly neighbors and so forth.

You don’t say?

The next dirt-crossing intersected a trail aiming to the mouth of Globe Canyon. It was one of her planned waypoints, and Lyndy engine braked. Cattle guards—essentially rusty metal grates—had been positioned on both sides to prevent wandering cows from turning into train kabobs. Lyndy rolled across the tracks, pausing on the far side to take her bearings. The map indicated actively used JBR corrals, and a spring or guzzler up slope from here.

Reaching behind the passenger seat, Lyndy tilted the lid and dipped her fingers in the plastic ice chest. The ice inside was already turning to slush water. She fished for a slippery can of pop, not knowing which container was which, but expecting Tab cola. Beholding the prize, she discovered it was grape soda, a leftover of some long-forgotten camping trip.

“Grape? Seriously, what sober individual buys grape soda?”

She stared at it, pondering whether she was really thirsty enough to swallow a grape flavored soft drink, and questioning her decision-making ability in all areas of life. Something about it tasted so much like purple cough medicine. She ran the moist exterior over her flush cheeks and forehead. Then she hopped to the stable ground.

Pointing the lid well away from her midsection, Lyndy tore off the foil tab. The pressurized contents ejected a fountain of foam, like cheap champagne. Then she raised it to her lips. Liquid infused with too many air bubbles ran down her chin as she gulped as much as possible. It smelled like pure cane sugar.

Lyndy Life Tip #164: No matter how handsome or charming, never date a guy who collects antique train whistles. Personal experience.

When the can was finished Lyndy crushed it with her boot heel. A lone honey bee was fast hovering over the muddy ground, giddy with excitement. She wiped her forearm across her lips, then sought out a clean rag to do a better job; she didn’t want to be sticky all afternoon.

The Spitfire set her arms and elbows across the rear fender, this time lowering her head and kicking at the soft dirt. The tips of her black hair dangled across her chest. Every so often she could hear the train faintly, a squeaking of steel against rail, receding in the distance.

That relatively cool night in Amboy had given false hope for relief, yet was simply an intermission. Already she could feel a headache coming on, beginning as a tightness around the temples. It was likely the first indication of heat stroke. But if she had to give this headache a name, it would be Dale Keynes. What a cad.

Like her pal the raven, it was routine for him to take advantage of any vulnerable situation. The worst: when she was nineteen, naively she’d informed the whole town—at least everybody at the Vanishing Point on a Thursday night—of their intentions to wed. I mean sure, they had talked about it.

The sting of embarrassment was evergreen, still making it difficult to breath whenever the memory crossed her mind. You know how small towns get. And then he comes back from Nevada married to Miranda. He’d taken her pride and smashed it to smithereens. Lyndy was so ashamed she could barely leave the house. Rather than show her face, she’d drive to Victorville or points west to buy groceries and avoid everybody. Maybe that was when she started resenting Catherine. The reason? Cathy had never made a fool of herself in the same way The Spitfire did.

Lyndy reached for the wrinkled map. She set her finger upon the circles marking wells at Government Holes. It wasn’t going to be easy informing Chan of her failures. She’d wasted a week of time with no result.

Speaking of the elderly, somebody should check on that crazy sweater lady. She probably had a house full of cats and no AC.

Lyndy shook her head. “Somehow, I manage to achieve new lows in career and love life simultaneously,” she muttered, glancing at her dusty boots.

Then she spotted tire marks, deep and crisp. Some other fool had been here—exactly the same spot—even stopped.

Wait, wait, wait. In this weather? Somebody else had been here … today?

Folding it in half, she threw the map back on the passenger seat. There hadn’t been another car since before Granite Pass.

Lyndy circled around the Jeep, head pointed down, hands in her back pockets, eyes studying every inch of the lines. She lowered to a crouch, resting on her heals. With just the nail of her finger she touched the highest points, places where a tread void had rolled. The tracks were firm, created by a heavy vehicle that was also wider than normal. From this angle she could see and compare to the maroon Jeep. Separation between wheel centers was so broad it dwarfed the Jeep’s axles, greater than any she could recall from a civilian truck.

But the most striking feature was a common sense rule the owner failed to obey: he or she wasn’t running the same make of tire on all four wheels. At first, Lyndy assumed they’d been pulling a trailer, but no. Two on the left were matching, but the third and fourth, while being equivalent width, were completely different tread.

The pattern ran both directions, into and out of Globe Canyon.

What kind of Frankenstein car is this? Somebody own a dump truck around here?

Lyndy placed a finger on her chin and squinted at the sun. About the only thing rascal Dale had mentioned about Government Holes was the lack of any recognizable patterns, due to heavy rains.

Reaching in the cargo bed for the tools, The Spitfire retrieved a coiled cloth tape measure. She stretched it over the marks in the road, bending down to keep it tight. Once black numbers were so faded you could only read every other digit. But it worked: 79 inches edge to edge.

Next, Lyndy went for her camera. Shaking it from its leather case under the passenger seat, she walked a suitable distance to frame a better picture. As she did this she configured the aperture for exceptionally bright conditions.

Once upon a time in the west, you could track a person by his or her boot print, or the gate of their horse. Nowadays, well, you had to make-do.

Knowing these shots might come in handy, Lyndy took several snaps, then stowed the camera. Taking one last look around, she combed the horizon for wisps of dust, possibly indicating trucks on dirt roads. None were present, not even a whirlwind. She decided it was time to get a move on.

It made logical sense for tourists to want to visit the iconic Mojave. It was known around the globe, enjoying particular acclaim in Europe. But when the radio is squawking about record breaking heat waves, who the hell wants to suffer out here versus relaxing indoors at some posh Vegas casino? The whole week had been like that: quiet. Plus, what sucker rents a car with non-matching tires?

“I gotta find that vehicle,” thought Lyndy, accelerating onto the pavement.

 

20 minutes later …

Ten miles deeper in, at an intersection with Cedar Canyon Road, Lyndy pulled to the side. Conditions were getting worse. She left the engine idling so the mechanical fan would spin and pump continue circulating water. There hadn’t been any motorists along the previous stretch. Not surprising.

Her thighs were sticking to the seats. They made that burping noise as she slid out to survey the land, her headache becoming more and more intense. The Spitfire cupped a hand over her eyes to shield from glare. With the other arm she braced on the windshield support pillar. Hallucinations would be next.

According to AAA, there ought to be direct access to the Mojave Road from here, but it required locating hundred-year-old wagon ruts comprising what remained of the trail. Not an easy task.

After all this, Mr. Crawford better not skip town or something.

She reached for the pack of cigarettes and cheap lighter. With the plastic bic she touched one Newport to flame, but could have pressed it to the pavement with the same result. Gripping it between two knuckles she trekked across the road.

Even the county-maintained road was in deplorable condition. Its charcoal gray surface crumbled beneath the soles of her shoes, each gap drowned in about 5 layers of tar, and filled in with blowing sand. On the far side was a dry watercourse. Where the drainage had been spanned by a barbed wire fence, intermittent runoff flowed at a westward slanting angle, 30 degrees to the road.

Near to this ephemeral stream, a primitive scrap wire and wood gate caught her attention. It was part of the fence line for the cattle range. The closure mechanism was simply a loop of wire—thick as a coat hanger—stretched over top of a sturdy post. At the base of the post, a hearty nolina plant had taken root.

Lyndy had to wrestle the wire gate, using her shoulder to reduce tension. Then she pried it loose with her fingertips, scuffing up carefully painted nails in the process. The crude gate collapsed in a heap on the ground, defeated. She felt ready to do the same.

But there were narrow ruts here, and protruding in the gaps, fragments of rusty iron, parts of horseshoes left behind by mules a hundred years ago.

This then, must be the road in question—Russ’s road. Lyndy crushed out her cigarette. Then she saw tire marks, same as before. She knelt down for a closer inspection. Indeed, whomever had been at Globe Canyon, had also passed this way, except only one time. They were traveling west, into the range.

Hastily returning to the jeep, she gave each of her front hubs a quarter turn, setting them to the “lock” position. From the stretch she could see, and what Russ had described, driving the Mojave Road would be like riding one of those 15-cent kiddie rides outside a supermarket, except twice the number of jolts and never ending.

She muscled the transfer case into low range.

Who needs a gym workout when you drive a CJ-5?

There were rules of etiquette in backcountry travel. Nothing could be more irritating to a rancher than a gate left open by careless off-roaders. So, it was interesting then, that the driver of the Frankenstein car had enough sense to force the gate back on. They paid no attention to tire safety but cared enough to practice the cattle rancher’s code. She was even more determined to visit the JBR, first to check every one of their vehicles. Somehow, she knew ahead of time none would match.

Westward ho. After rolling through the gate, Lyndy stopped briefly to secure it. If the map were to be believed, this segment should connect to Marl Springs, an oasis with plentiful water and animal guzzlers. But it was a long haul, ten or more miles.

Despite the comically slow pace, crawling in low range four-wheel-drive was pleasing to the human soul. The surface was so uneven anyway, it would be impossible to travel at any normal speed in two-wheel-drive. First you were listing at 25 degrees to the right, giving an unnerving feeling you might tip over with the leaf-sprung suspension. Then a hundred feet more you were tilted 25 degrees the opposite way, and the cycle kept repeating itself. Occasionally you were nose down at the same angle.

“I seriously need a massage after this,” The Spitfire whispered.

In the span of a handful of miles, the desert transformed itself. Unexpectedly she was engulfed by a forest of mature Joshua trees. Their shaggy limbs hung across the road like ancient oaks in the south.

Despite cartoon depictions, it was often said of saguaro cacti that you’d never find two individuals even remotely alike. The same could be said of Joshua trees, and that was the remarkable thing about them. The plants twisted overhead like art sculptures. Some were in full bloom, adding an aroma of pollen in the air. The dagger-like green leaves were tender, but near impossible to access given the texture of the trunk.

It could have been fun being out here, pretending you were pulled by a team of ornery mules, riding in a covered wagon. That is, if her entire brain wasn’t throbbing.

Up ahead the road dipped in a sandy wash. New openness created by the wash provided a view to the mountains. Lyndy noted towering cumulous starting to rocket up. The white cotton forms contrasted sharply with blue sky. High humidity, combined with triple digit temps were a recipe for storms. The troposphere had limit switches; it could only get so hot before something had to give.

To keep up momentum, Lyndy doubled her speed. She didn’t dare risk getting stuck until she was safely to the other side of the wash.

Out in front there was some unidentified life form coming into view, strange black masses moving horizontally on the alluvial plain. They were cows with watermelon shaped bodies and bulbous heads, appearing to hover over the ground. The skinny toothpick legs of cattle were completely blurred by heat waves.

The Rawhide television theme intruded into her mind: Don’t try to understand em, just rope, throw and brand em… sage advice.

Cresting a small rise—remains of a fossil sand bar in the watercourse—she came upon additional cows. These were standing in the road. Her reflexes taxed, The Spitfire could hardly react quick enough, slamming on drum brakes to avoid plowing into the nearest one. The Jeep went into a slide, coming to rest with fender twelve inches away. The startled beast let out a distressed moo, causing the rest of the herd to scatter into the brush.

“Running into one of those behemoths would have been bad ugly,” thought Lyndy.

But when she eased the shifter back into gear and tried to drive forward, her tires began to spin. Lyndy attempted to compensate by revving the engine higher, but it was no use. She threw it into reverse, but it wouldn’t go backward either. In the soft soil, all-terrain tires were no bueno. Everything she tried only made things worse.

Lyndy craned her neck to the side. Looking at the rear axle, her heart sank. It was buried up to the diff case. She smacked her palms three times against the wheel. Lyndy still hadn’t purchased a CB radio.

In hindsight, she should have left a note, or mentioned to Chan where she was going. She’d told no one of her plan, and was on one of the least traveled, loneliest stretches of trail in the desert. This wasn’t a game anymore.

“Crapola.”

Lyndy reached in the igloo cooler for a sandwich; they were floating on the surface now, probably soaked. Meanwhile she eyed the green army shovel. It had been strapped to the roll cage ever since she could remember. Hector had needed it once or twice, probably to get out of the same situation. But never had The Spitfire dug herself loose; she was the pretty one. She was the charming one. And that was the worst thing about Hector’s passing—she had to do the digging by herself. But wasn’t it the same thing Chan complained about? He had to be the bounty hunter now and she was the private investigator. It took both of them to replace the first Martinez.

“You know, if I die out here, I’m coming back as a ghost and totally going to haunt the shit out of Ted Crawford.”

 

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-11

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Dale stuck out his palm, softly pressing it to her midsection. With a smooth but forceful motion, he backed Lyndy up, asserting his way further into the Airstream trailer. He hung up his cowboy hat on a peg by the door.

“All the males in my county have lost their damn minds,” thought Lyndy.

As the door closer shut automatically, he latched it behind.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” said Lyndy.

“Miranda thinks I’m working late,” he replied.

Years had elapsed since he’d laid a heavy hand on her body. Deep inside, she missed that blissful feeling. It was the only reason she hadn’t punched him in the nose.

He began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Hey, I apologize,” said The Spitfire. “You must have got me confused with somebody else. I ain’t never been a homewrecker.”

He paused and looked up.

“I leave that job to folks like Catherine,” she added.

Why she chose to throw Cathy Cookson under the bus, Lyndy wasn’t sure.

Dale inhaled suddenly, then slapped a hand against the doorframe. “Dammit. You used to be different.” His breathing was audible.

Lyndy nodded. “Perhaps you’re right.” She exhaled, calmly taking a seat at the table. She needed to be off her wobbly ankles, lest they give out. She took a moment to adjust the top of her robe, so it thoroughly covered any bare skin below the neck.

“So, I had a friendly chat with our buddy Wallach,” declared Dale.

Lyndy frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

“I called him up—asked him if he knew where Evan Stone was holed up.”

“Why would he bother telling the truth?”

“Because I also told him where and when to meet me in plain clothes.”

Lyndy sniffed, eyes downcast, fingers tracing wavy lines in the pattern of the Formica table. “He won’t fight fair you know,” she warned. “He’ll probably bring his brain-dead pals to back him up.”

“Doesn’t matter who he brings,” said Dale, placing a hand flat on the table, inches from her fingers. Each of his knuckles were badly scarred, from prior bare-fisted boxing matches.

Lyndy shook her head. “I’m sad to say, eventually it will matter. You have two kids now. There are many more of those guys than there are of us—even counting the bounty hunter—and he pretty much counts double. That’s exactly why I backed down today.” Under the table she crossed her legs.

Lyndy reached for the pack of Newports. She shook two out, passing the extra cig to Dale. Then she stuck the first one in her lips, raising the lighter to it. Once lit, she flicked the lighter like a skipping stone, landing topside in her purse.

“I ain’t sure why I backed down. It’s not like me,” whispered Lyndy. “I guess I chickened out. I was thinking of my brother—the way he died alone.”

After a few puffs, Dale added, “Wallach told me Evan knew of a remote hunter’s cabin, way out in east county, not shown on any maps. He’s self-sufficient there for weeks, and he won’t come out until the charges are dropped. Wallach claimed he’d never been there.”

Less than half a day, and the story had changed. She still didn’t believe it.

Lyndy felt ready to speak again. “Alright, remember two things: Number one, you cannot keep fighting battles for me. I swear to god you are gonna get us both killed. Second, and most important, you are the one who had a decision to make. You chose Miranda over me and I still don’t know why. But it was your call who to marry, and you have to live with the consequences. I’ve already accepted it. You sure as hell can’t have the both of us. What will it take for you to understand?”

Dale had a really ticked expression.

Lyndy rested her forehead in her hands. “I would have changed for you. I would have been a good wife.” She didn’t know why she threw that stuff in. It was probably a lie. The Spitfire knew she could not have changed for anyone, let alone Dale.

“I can’t stop my feelings for you,” replied Dale.

“Well maybe you ought to try hypnotism. I hear those dudes can cure you of anything,” she said sarcastically.

 

Next morning …

Birds were chirping. The Spitfire opened her eyes partway. Judging by the light flooding her bedroom, she’d slept in. But at least she felt rested. She pinched at the motheaten curtain pleats, raising them an inch to see out. The foothills were bathed in a golden yellow.

Lyndy turned back to the ceiling, placing a hand under her head for support. Sure, there were advantages to being single. You get to hog the exact middle of the bed, and stretch out. Nobody tells you when to get up. Plenty of time to focus on one’s career aspirations—so many opportunities—and … and … who the hell are we kidding? Being alone is awful. She closed her eyes.

Time to get serious, chica. Get up.

Rolling out of bed sideways, Lyndy stumbled to the drip coffee maker. Along the way she collected items of clothing: a faded pair of denim shorts she had to squeeze her hips into, a comfy bra despite underwire, a lightweight cotton cowgirl shirt with pearly buttons. And at the table, she re-laced her favorite hiking boots, in case she needed to traverse large distances on foot. Her faith in AMC product dependability—what little remained—was shaken to the core.

Lyndy Life Tip #158: Unless you live in a Brady Bunch household, get a four or five cup coffee maker. Who the hell needs 12 cups of coffee in the morning? It’s a waste.

Meanwhile, The Spitfire hatched a new, better plan. Something had been bugging her ever since Ted Crawford stopped in at Roy’s Cafe, and it had nothing to do with Evan Stone. Wouldn’t it be sexist to assume a female wasn’t as capable as a man at cattle rustling? There were numerous red flags surrounding her Good-Samaritan image. Julia Russell had the hardened appearance, and practical skillset, of an individual who knew their way around ranching and cows. Suspicion was warranted.

Working this case somehow seemed more pleasant anyway—too bad she couldn’t bill Lovelace for it. Cattle rustling was a good old fashioned western crime. Nobody was going to threaten to disfigure her face or drag her behind a horse—that only happened in cheesy action movies. She could avoid contact with crazy people like Dale Keynes and Kyle, and it would allow her time to ponder how to peacefully resolve Chan’s case. As a bonus, there might be opportunities to accidently “bump into” the cowboy Ted, particularly if her route of travel took her anywhere near the JBR.

While waiting for coffee to brew, Lyndy unfurled the county map, spreading it over the double bed. Daylight revealed faint blue dashes tracing out the ephemeral courses of the namesake Mojave River, dotted outlines marking dry lakebeds, and the no man’s land of sand dunes. The crisp folded edges crinkled under the weight of her fingers and thumb.

The East Mojave was an ideal stomping ground to play T. E. Lawrence. The I-15 and I-40 freeways formed a tilted V shape, the double end opening to the borderline. This wedge contained vast wilderness sprinkled with abandoned mines, rock forts, ghost towns and other archaeological sites; a last bastion of the wild west oddly positioned in rural California.

Included were a lifetime’s supply of dirt roads waiting to be explored. Some of those trails were on BLM sanctioned grazing land, others part of a network of stock ranches including Kessler Springs, the OX and the JBR. The possibilities were endless.

Good news was, Julia Russell had provided several clues to her whereabouts. The Old Mojave Road connected a series of natural seeps and watering holes, stretching horizontally from the Colorado River wetlands, through the middle of the wedge, to the Mojave River crossing itself at Afton Canyon near Barstow.

Because it traversed several high mountain ranges, The Mojave Road was by no means an efficient passage, but without adequate sources of clean water each night, your pack animals were going to die anyway. Knowing this, modern ranchers had developed additional water sources for their cattle, informally called guzzlers.

Resting on her stomach, Lyndy tucked a number two pencil behind her ear and charted a course that would take her through or near all the major points Russ had mentioned. A few of the names she recalled were Marl Springs, Cedar Canyon, Rock Spring and Fort Piute. The proposed route would also take her to Government Holes, where some of the cows went missing, and Lanfair Valley, where presumably a large truck could have driven them out.

Chan never called and that was a good thing—must have forgotten to pay his phone bill. The other thing that happened, she didn’t even want to contemplate yet.

 

Minutes later …

Under the protective shelter of a paloverde tree, Lyndy loaded her SLR camera with iso 64 color film. She exercised the advance lever repeatedly until she was certain the take-up spool had engaged. Next, she hosed dust off the neglected igloo cooler, and filled it to the brim with crushed ice.

Lyndy shook and punched at the lid of Hector’s old Dodger ball cap until it resembled a hemisphere, then flipped it on her head using the bill. This was a day to be practical. No time for monkey business.

 

Using a bowie knife, Lyndy began smearing natural peanut butter and strawberry jam onto slices of plain white bread—the finest available at the gas station c-store. She wrapped her culinary creations in layers of tinfoil, placing them atop the ice in the cooler. What kind of nut-job enjoys a warm PB&J? She also tossed in some extra cans of soda.

Back in town, Lyndy topped off her fuel tank, pocketed the receipt, and headed east on Route-66, to the first junction with Kelbaker Road. Cruising at near fifty miles an hour, the morning air was energizing. She switched on the do-nothing factory radio, and though struggling for reception, could faintly hear a song she recognized. At knee level, it felt like the heater was stuck on. Adjusting the knobs made no noticeable difference—perhaps they weren’t connected—and with all the other air movement it didn’t seem to matter.

Lyndy submitted a radio request via ESP. Humming along to the music, filling in parts of songs that weren’t audible, she didn’t pass a single other motorist until she made the turn onto Kelbaker Road. Shortly thereafter, she passed a man in a non-descript Carry-All heading the other direction.

Approaching the interstate from the south, Lyndy was treated to a panoramic view of the Granite Mountains. They were among the tallest and most rugged peaks in the desert. Spires of solid granite, like the buttresses of a cathedral fronting the range, with no foothills to speak of. The rocks themselves had a pinkish tint, rather than the cool grey of Yosemite’s famous walls. The highest points, Granite and Silver peaks, hosted island forest of juniper and pinyon pine. They often received snowfall in the winter.

The surrounding landscape was changing fast. Unlike Amboy, where land was low and prairie-like, this place had a high desert feel, with greater variety of flora. One could smell the differences in the air. Notable were the Mojave yucca, still in bloom.

Reaching far side of the I-40 undercut, Lyndy crossed paths with two additional vehicles; first was a Jeep, this one a pretty shade of cobalt blue. Lyndy received a traditional Jeeper’s salute from the driver. She responded hastily with a quick wave. Were it not for that person snapping her out of a daydream, she would never have noticed the second car.

It was a Ford Galaxie station wagon, tan in color, and behind the wheel sat a familiar character. Lyndy did a double take. It was the older woman Lyndy had seen in Barstow on numerous occasions, otherwise known as “sweater lady”. Both her hands were squeezing tight to the steering wheel as if she were on a Big Dipper roller coaster, about to crest the largest hill. She was leaning forward so much her old lady scarf or shawl—whatever that thing was called—was practically touching the crooked visor on the windshield. And yep, still a trademark ugly brown sweater to complete her ensemble. The side vents were cracked outward, but the main windows were all rolled up tight. Yikes! Did she have functioning air? Without that, it would have been like riding around in the tropical punishment box from Bridge on the River Kwai.

And what would an encounter with the sweater lady be without a scornful glance and the same evil eye, unprovoked of course? This woman embodied the “drive angry” mantra.

Wait, the sweater lady has a car?

Lyndy took her foot off the gas, decelerating to watch closely where the car went in her rear view. As expected, the woman turned westward, entering the ramp for I-40. That meant she was returning in the direction of Barstow.

Lyndy couldn’t imagine a more fitting ride for her, replete with sloppy Earl Scheib style re-paint, cause originally that land-boat came factory two-tone. Lyndy whispered aloud: “But if she actually owns a vehicle, why the hell is she walking all the time?”

After miles of steady incline, Lyndy crested the summit of Granite Pass, and was rewarded with a scene out of a western movie. Visibility was superb. In the valley below sat a miniature Saharan landscape called Kelso Dunes. Adjacent was the fancifully named Devil’s Playground. Both were a product of the Mojave River, changing courses and generating shifting sand over millennia. Sometimes it was fun to hike out there. Except with the high-pressure system unabated, it was sure to be another blistering and windy day, making the dunes not at all inviting.

Something encouraging was beginning to stir in The Spitfire’s soul. She was starting to gain back the feeling she loved most about the desert: a sense of tranquility and freedom. Hector had once said, “It may be an acquired taste, but the desert works its way down in your soul. One day you decide you don’t dislike the dry open spaces—you actually start to miss them. That’s when you know you’ll never leave this place.”

 

Lyndy chugged on to the intersection with Kelso-Cima Road, in the tiny whistle-stop town of Kelso. Kelso was roughly the same size as Amboy, but in a competition for which town could disappear off the map sooner, Kelso was leading the charge.

By far its most prominent feature was a majestic 1920’s train depot, done in a lavish mission style of early California. In the bygone era of steam this had been a crucial resting point, where crew and passengers alike could take a hot meal, play some card games, or even sleep in a normal bed.

Though it must have been romantic in its heyday, modern Kelso was a real dump—comparable to a thirties dust-bowl adventure park. No TV signal even reached the town. So, by one measure of civilization, in Amboy you could watch Johnny Carson, but in Kelso forget about it. That all assumed you even owned a television.

Near the depot, a rusting away sign, flapping and squeaking on a metal post, advertised a six-pack of Schlitz beer at 29 cents.

“Sheesh! What a killer deal,” thought Lyndy. “It’s like 5 cents per can.”

No motorists were coming either direction.

The Spitfire couldn’t help herself. Emboldened by curiosity, Lyndy parked the jeep adjacent to the decaying wooden saloon. A single pane window, having become near opaque from decades of sandblasting, was still her best option for seeing inside.

Lyndy opened her car door. Stepping out onto the sand, she post-holed her way to the window. Knotholes in the pine-board roof allowed shafts of light to illuminate the room, but to see anything with clarity, she had to wipe a circle using her elbow and bunched up sleeve. It was good enough she could cup her hands and peer inside. The room was mostly cleared out, with half a dozen spider webs dangling from the rafters. Anything which could be strapped to a model T Ford, or even the back of a tired mule, had been hauled off to the next boom town; all except for a decrepit pool table. It was a common sight, as very few settlers had the wherewithal to move a pool table when pulling up stakes in a hurry.

“Man, I bet that old thing could tell some stories,” pondered Lyndy. “Wyatt Earp himself might have knocked a few balls around it.” She levered off one of her boots, needing to exercise the arch of her foot, and at the same time discard some sand.

 

Meanwhile in San Bernardino …

Matt Wallach was busy polishing his fifty-year-old bar top, when he heard the door hinges creak, and the click of boots.

Being too early for any customers, he had a sinking feeling. His war buddies were still at home, sleeping off hangovers from the previous night.

Without having to look he knew it was the deputy, the one asking about Evan, and who protected The Spitfire.

He continued mindlessly with circular motions on quarter-sawn oak, using the soft rag, but his attention was fully on how to survive this encounter.

“Can I get you something, pal?” he offered, a touch of humor in his voice.

There was no answer from the huge cop. Matt gave him a sideways glance. He could see brown leather gloves covering both his fists. The cold, unfeeling stare on his face was the same the guards had prior to a beat down. This young man wasn’t here to “check on him”.

Wallach chuckled nervously.

“I uh, heard you were some kinda bare-knuckle fighter in Saigon. I myself am a veteran. Never got a chance to see you there, but I knowed some folks used to bet against you.”

No answer, but he knew the cop was observing him in silence.

“I suppose they wanted to see an American officer get his ass whupped by a local boy.” Wallach was thinking about his pistol, and whether he could get to it faster than that cop could get to him. “This one time, was a champion martial arts expert come to town. He was about twenty-five years old, and obviously pretty cocky. He was Chinese I think. His wife or girlfriend was there in attendance, and part of his family. That fool was supposed to put you in your place—like one of them Kung Fu TV episodes.” Wallach suddenly felt his throat getting dry. “Carson—he’s my regular bartender, usually stands right here—told me that was the first time he’d witnessed a shunning after a match.”

“Look Wallach, your friends are idiots, but you knew that,” said Dale Keynes. “I just hope you enjoy fruit smoothies, cause that’s the only thing you’ll be eating for the next six weeks.”

A deep feeling of regret was steadily chipping away at Wallach’s state of mind. His pride may have cost him teeth, and he would not be able to help Evan after this.

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-10

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

“Ted? Do you mean Ted Crawford? The little delinquent.” Dale shook his head. “Not a chance. He’s got a major attitude problem, but I don’t think he’s that devious.”

The Spitfire raised an eyebrow skeptically; she was thinking back to Monday night. His account of the bashful JBR cowboy defied all personal experience. If anyone had an attitude, it was Dale Keynes. But Lyndy kept her opinion to herself. “That little delinquent is a year younger than me. He’s twenty-five Dale.”

“Fine. Good point.” Dale, tapped his fingers on the edge of the desk and yawned, the metal from his wedding ring making a clinking noise. “All you desert rats are growing up fast. This is seriously depressing.”

“Join the club,” replied Lyndy, with a tilt of the head.

At least she confirmed Ted wasn’t a prime suspect. Lyndy wanted to ask additional questions, but they were interrupted by the sound of clicking cowboy boots on the hard floor. Then someone banged on Dale’s door. Lyndy prepared to leave.

“Just a minute,” said Dale, as he checked his watch. “Hey, what are you doing the rest of the day?” he whispered.

“Uh, laundry I think.” Lyndy straightened the inch-high stack of papers documenting Wallach’s criminal record, shoving them back in the folder. Pushing her hair out of her face, she added, “But first I’ve got another lead I want to check out, and then I’m pretty sure Chan is gonna ring my phone about one million times until I finally pick-up; he’ll want a status report. Another thrilling night for me.” Lyndy stood up. She fixed her hair, putting it back in a ponytail.

The door burst open, having been punched or kicked. Standing in the entry was Sheriff Jackson, frowning like his hound dog had been run over. One hand was shoved in his pocket.

Dale immediately sat down in his chair, the correct way, and started rearranging papers on his desk. “Nice of you to drop by Lyn. I’ll give Wallach’s parole agent a heads up. Good luck with your laundry,” he said, in a boy scout chipper sort of voice.

“Howdy,” said Lyndy to Sheriff Jackson.

In answer, Granville simply pointed toward the front and recited, “Bail enforcement agents, private dicks, people who watch too many police dramas and all employees of Chan’s Bail Bonds are prohibited from back offices.” His facial expression was stale.

It wasn’t worth correcting him that technically speaking, she was under contract from The Lovelace Corporation, not Chan’s.

“But me and Dale are long-time friends?”

“Don’t care. It’s a police station, not a slumber party. Happy trails Miss Martinez,” said Granville, with a tip of his hat.

“I’m movin. I’m movin,” grumbled Lyndy.

 

45 minutes later …

Judging by the size and girth of her abdomen, Lorraine Hobbs was six or more months pregnant. When Lyndy found her, she was pacing her yard in a yellow house dress, using a bowie knife to flick bits of collared green at her pet iguanas. The two lizards were attentive as any small dog, sniffing the air with their tongues, and munching on the crunchy leaves. Every place Lorraine moved the two of them wiggled after. And for some reason the sound of a dog eating food was tolerable, but the hideous sound of those iguanas chomping was like wine glasses spinning in a garbage disposal.

Pretty much a normal citizen for the Mojave Desert.

Nearby, Lorraine’s three-year-old son—Lyndy assumed he was her son—was busy playing Lone Ranger, reciting, “Bang! Bang!” every fifteen seconds. He had on a cowboy hat, a denim shirt and silver cap gun with plastic holster, but no pants. He even pretended to shoot his cap gun at Lyndy’s jeep as she bounced up the driveway, shouting, “Comanches!”.

It was Tammy Ward who mentioned her second cousin lived in Phelan, and was a former cocktail waitress at Cadillac’s. Lyndy had seen her fair share of pop-up goldrush towns, but this place was ridiculous. The AAA map became hopelessly obsolete. Gravel roads zig-zagged throughout the community, adjoining at random angles, seeming to follow the whims of an inebriated bulldozer operator, rather than adhere to a master plan. Lorraine’s home was a glorified cabin, lifted and balanced on a raised foundation, set back from the road and shaded by a stand of dry oak trees.

Lyndy casually let her eyes wander. Lorraine’s upper arms exhibited some puzzling tattoos. Was there a mister Hobbs hiding somewhere, or was she a single mother? Lyndy felt it would be impolite to inquire. Not to imply Lorraine even needed a man in her life. She seemed to be doing just fine on her own.

To hear Lorraine explain it, Evan Stone had treated everyone like a gentleman—we’re talking Victorian style. She remembered him fondly, having been a charismatic singer in an upstart rock band; same story Chan had told. And she added that she couldn’t recall any of the other girls making negative remarks about him either. Lorraine believed the charges against him were false.

So then, why run?

Instead of adding clarity, the more she learned about Evan, the more troubling and deeper her confusion. By all accounts he was an everyday criminal. A bit of a swindler perhaps, and nothing more.

Facing facts, Lorraine had been a waitress at a disreputable nightclub, and so there was reason to suspect her recollection and what constituted a “nice guy” was mis-calibrated. But how off could it be? Even a so-called lady of the night knows what a kind man is.

After ten minutes, Lyndy handed Lorraine a $20-dollar bill for her time, and left.  She knew it would be unproductive to continue the interview.

Lyndy Life Tip #156: Never, ever make the mistake of buying a wallet with Velcro closure. That repetitious sound will drive you insane.

 

Later that evening …

The once bold white stripes marking the crosswalks had all turned to dust, and blown away. Since passenger trains ceased making regular stops in Amboy, let alone buses, there was no need to restore them. There wasn’t even a car in sight for miles; just the rabbits and coyotes. Biggest danger on the road was spraining an ankle falling in one of many potholes.

While traversing the two-lane highway on foot, a cold wind sent Lyndy’s dark hair flying, and ruffled her skirt. Being chilled was an unfamiliar sensation, the first time in many days she’d experienced it. Goosebumps set the skinny hairs on her arms standing on end, and for a moment, her body was confused. Are we cold or are we hot?

At the motel, she had a remaining load of laundry in the coin-op dryer. Lyndy was mostly killing time, clutching a week’s contents of her post office box—mostly junk mail and fashion catalogs—under one arm. Had she been feeling ambitious, she would have taken her favorite clothes to the much larger laundromats in Barstow; they had newer machines.

Lyndy breathed deep and exhaled deliberately, savoring the tranquility of open space. Shades of indigo swept across the landscape. Along the western horizon, an awe-inspiring scene like an oil painting: the atmosphere transitioning through a palette of purples, blues, and finally hues of fiery orange near where the sun had gone down. Small business jets streaked over the mountaintops, glittering silently, en-route to cities like Vegas or Phoenix.

As a protective covering, the troposphere is largely underrated. Scientists say without it, you’d need a space suit.

Of course, Chan would be expecting an update, with substantive progress. She had only generalities to offer. Evan was sucked into the Mojave equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle, along with Ted’s missing range cattle, and about 10 other dudes having mugshots on the wall of shame.

 

In the darkness Lyndy navigated her mile-long dirt driveway, all the way up to the silver airstream. She drove slow on purpose, minimizing the chances of running over a tortoise, or any other creature sleeping in the road.

When she arrived, Lyndy could see a white envelope had been taped to the screen door. Inside was an embossed invitation to the river party. Todd must have dropped by earlier in the afternoon. He signed it T.P., and handwrote: “Hope you can make it!”

The Spitfire smiled to herself as she pulled open the main door, setting aside her basket of laundry, unfolded. Hopping up the stairs she maneuvered to the kitchen.

She hadn’t expected much, knowing the pantry would be lacking. What could one prepare with two cans of pinto beans, one can of olives, and a box of corn puffs? Betty Crocker didn’t have a recipe for that.

Lyndy tore open the corner of the box and poured herself a bowl of cold cereal. It was a pitiful dinner, the signature meal of someone single and lonely. Afterward she took a hot shower, and spent time lounging on the steps in her bathrobe. She would have been inside, except it was still too hot to sleep. And lacking a television, she passed time listening to the AM radio. Reception came in waves, but improved significantly come nightfall—something to do with ions in the atmosphere. There was a certain theater of the mind effect that came with listening to far-off radio in some desert encampment.

Twisting the cap from a bottle of tequila, she poured herself a half-inch of reposado in a jar. Leaning back to take a sip, she shut her eyes. That’s when she heard the big iron motor. Her free hand went instinctively to the radio dial, lowering the volume by three clicks. She’d come to recognize the rumbling of cars approaching on the driveway. After listening to enough of them, you started to tell them apart. It definitely wasn’t a Cadillac, ruling out Chan. There was no denying it; this was an American truck. Not always true, but most trucks were driven by men.

“Crapola,” she mouthed. The Spitfire had nothing on underneath her pink bathrobe. She recapped the glass bottle.

Of all the things to be wearing!

Lyndy contemplated putting on clothes, but there wasn’t time. All that mattered was whether she could properly defend herself. She tied her robe tighter, squeezing through the screen door. She spotted her purse lying on the padded bench, at the kitchen table.

You know you’re a redneck when your kitchen table has one leg and two big hinges.

Reaching for it, she unsnapped the top flap and removed the black Beretta. It felt cold. There was one bullet in the chamber. She flicked off the safety, planning to manually lower the hammer.

By design the old silver mine didn’t receive many strangers; Hector liked it that way. Lyndy wasn’t so sure. One was just as vulnerable here as in town. Hell, Chan lived in town.

It was weird to be in a bathrobe, at the table, facing the door, with an unknown visitor approaching. It could still be a friendly face. She kept one hand under the table, the grip in the curl of her palm. If it was Ted Crawford, or Kyle Ellis, she could hastily stuff the gun back in her purse, and feign relaxation. Might also be Todd Parker.

She heard the engine cut off, then the sound of a man’s boots crunching on the outside gravel. He was tall. It could still be Todd.

The man tapped lightly on the aluminum screen.

After a pause, time enough for courage to build, Lyndy called out: “Who is it?”

No answer came at first. It was like the start of a bad joke. She could think of nothing else to say. Her fingers started to wrap around the grip. One could shoot through the door if need be. It was made of a flimsy metal. But why would a would-be assassin tap on the door?

“Hey, let me in Lyn” came the voice of Dale Keynes. For some reason it was the last person she had been expecting. Setting the Beretta aside—no reason to hide it—she jumped up and immediately opened the door.

He was still in uniform. For a moment they stood like mute statues, staring back at one another. Dale hadn’t been to the trailer in years, never this late at night, even when Hector was living. His earlier cheerfulness had all been erased.

“What the heck are you doing here?” she blurted out.

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-9

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

The Spitfire was in a bind.

Lyndy Life Tip #156: The trite phrase “it was a different time” can be used to justify anything outrageous or in poor taste. Example: “At a carnival I paid actual money to see a duck playing a xylophone … it was a different time.”  See how it works.

Of course, when it’s a Tuesday morning in San Bernardino County, and there’s a gun pointed at your chest, only because of a simple request that a bar owner take down their racist signage … well, it was a ….

His right arm was steady, at waist level, with a finger resting happily on the trigger and thumb on the hammer. Judging by his demeaner, it wasn’t a first for this lug nut.

The tall man continued speaking in an irritated fashion, “Let me explain some about the chrome plating process Miss Martinez. It involves highly corrosive chemicals, a lot of them. And I never know what to do with that shit when I’m finished. Disposing of acids legally in this state is expensive. Chemistry was never a strong suit, but I’ve often wondered what would happen if we held a person down and poured it on their face. What do you think that would feel like? Or, god forbid, if Evan’s little girl had a terrible accident around my shop. I would hate to see her grow up with that kind of scarring. I really couldn’t live with myself. You think a face like yours is unattractive now?”

Ever wonder what kind of dude drives a truck with those female silhouette mud flaps, in chrome?

Lyndy swallowed hard.

“God, if only he were a few feet closer, I could kick him directly in the nuts,” thought The Spitfire. But as much as she wanted the evil porcelain sign—to use it for target practice—she knew now was not the time. “Did he really just threaten a kid?” Best to cut the meeting short, then come back ready to kick ass at a later date.

The Spitfire cleared her throat, lest she squeak out a high-pitched reply. “Okey-doke, I suppose I’m gonna have to take your word for it … that ya’ll haven’t seen Evan Stone,” she announced, while inching her backside closer and closer to the door. “I’ll be leaving now…. probably won’t return. Got hearts to break elsewhere.”

“Do me a favor,” bellowed the man. “Give this message to Mr. Chan for me: Tell him Evan Stone went down to Ensenada to do some sport fishing. Sent us a postcard. And to lay off permanently. I don’t wanna see either one of you in my place of business. Pay attention to my damn signs next time. You ain’t welcome here. Neither are Chinese, the Indians, or anyone else who isn’t white. Got all that?” He shook his gun to drive home the point.

“Affirmative,” answered Lyndy. She held her empty hands high and backed out the door, pushing it open with her butt.

As she crossed the street the sun was blinding.

Lyndy crammed on sunglasses and fired up the Jeep, bump-shifting into gear. Good thing she’d gotten a new battery. Now would be the worst possible timing for a no-start.

The plastic steering wheel was searing hot; her fingers could tolerate it only a split second at a time. Lyndy constantly repositioned them like she was typing on a keyboard.

“Racist son-of-a-bitch,” she muttered, fuming under her breath.

Backing down from a fight felt infuriating. Could Chan’s no-show have been there all along, hiding in a back room? She had a strong suspicion.

Regardless, there was nothing to do but move on. Worst of all, the sign was still positioned in the window. Anybody who tried that in El Sereno would have gotten their tires slashed the same day, or worse.

 

An hour later ….

Lyndy Martinez observed a tiny shrike perform aerial acrobatics, swooping and diving among towering sandstone boulders at Mormon Rocks. She could tell what kind of bird it was by the silver head, and charcoal colored Zorro mask surrounding the eyes. Shrikes were feisty little creatures, known for skewering lizards on barbed wire fences. No joke.

Somewhere hidden in the scrubland was a nest, and a speckled egg. The Latin name for shrike means butcher. The mother would take on a mockingbird, jay or full-size raven in defense of her nest.

Lyndy let out a yawn. She could hear a rumbling sound, but the source was not clouds. Sunlight glinted off the cab window of an approaching diesel locomotive. A hundred yards beneath her Jeep passed twin iron rails of the Union Pacific main line. She was parked on a hidden dirt road, well away from traffic on the interstate. Dale had shown her this spot.

A smell of sage hung in the air, as did the smell of grilled meat and yellow cheese. The Spitfire peeled back the wax paper lining her cheeseburger, and took a big bite. Contrary to pop psychology, turns out one could fill a void in their life with greasy food. Lyndy scooted rearward, resting against the frame of the windshield, and placing one hand flat to brace herself. Crossing her tan legs, a glob of thousand island escaped the wrapper and plopped on her thigh. She dabbed at it with a paper napkin, but it was ineffective, only making her leg shinier. She’d probably smell like lunch the rest of the day.

At least the sky was blue again. But on the other hand, life was more depressing. Feeling positive about the future—that was for suckers. Her mission now was to survive, and as always, the best way to do that was to keep moving. Being still was deadly; the late victims of the shrike could attest to that.

 

As a child, Lyndy had ventured to places like Rosarito and San Carlos, accompanied by her Uncle Octavio. She remembered those trips as pleasant; they had the best hot chocolate. And Octavio was a true “people person”. He could chat up a complete stranger in town, and later that evening they’d be dining out on a rooftop terrace, at the stranger’s chicken ranch, treated like long-lost relatives. From what she’d been told, her bio-dad had the same qualities. He must have, to have charmed her mother the English teacher.

Unfortunately, herself and Hector hadn’t inherited such abilities.

“I bet Octavio was hoping to pawn me down there,” thought Lyndy.

At this point, the notion that Evan Stone actually escaped to Ensenada was seeming less and less believable. He was here, perhaps never having left his old neighborhood. His buddies were simply aiding him. It was a plausible theory. To make progress on the case, it was clear what had to happen next; she needed to drop in on her ex.

 

Back in Barstow ….

The multi-agency law enforcement complex where Deputy Keynes worked had two flourishing Joshua trees out front. Each topped twenty-feet in height. They were surrounded by coral pink rocks spread inches thick, in lieu of a lawn. Those trees were far older than the building, having been left in place during construction.

Lyndy quickly brushed her hair in the scant shade, removing some of the built-up tangles. She tilted her driver’s side mirror so she could re-apply mascara and lipstick, all while rehearsing what she was planning to say. Basically, she needed to establish a desire for help, but without asking him for help. And the hardest trick of all was to avoid Sheriff Jackson, Dale’s boss.

While most deputies didn’t seem to mind having occasional visitors around the station, Granville was averse. There wasn’t a private detective or bounty hunter he was known to tolerate, and he considered The Spitfire particularly offensive.

Upon opening the heavy front doors, Lyndy was hit by a rush of cold air from the blower. She could see the front desk operator, a green handset crammed between her ear and shoulder, typing furiously on the electric typewriter. Lyndy straightened her skirt and re-tucked in her blouse.

Low wooden dividers separated the lobby space from the back offices. Rather than seriously impede anyone aiming to do harm, it had been designed to keep the average Joe citizen corralled to the front. Lyndy waited impatiently for the clerk to acknowledge her, knowing there was a small button the girl could press to unlock the gate. A few seconds later the clerk glanced her way, giving a smile and quick nod. Lyndy knew to swing open the gate and let herself in.

The building had fake marble-pattern linoleum tiles and bad fluorescent lighting. On the walls were scuff marks and dents, places where people had freaked after being arrested. Slinking down the hallway in her best skirt, Lyndy felt anxious, not only because Sheriff Jackson could appear, but also because of random felons in cuffs who may recognize her. One never knew what apparition they might encounter.

She sidestepped gingerly past an area of cramped cubicles, where men in uniform were intensely focused on filling out paperwork. Sometimes Lyndy wondered if she had what it took to be a cop, but it was places like these that changed her mind. Despite what was seen on television, police work was mostly pencil-pushing and court appearances. She turned a corner and hurried down one final hall to where Dale’s office was located.

The door to the office was cracked an inch, and Lyndy could see Dale wasn’t at his desk. Sunlight poured in from the four-pane window, highlighting the swirled woodgrain top. She craned her neck, looking both ways. Using one finger, she widened the opening enough to sneak through, then restored it to its original position. He was probably out to lunch, or on a bathroom break. Either way it seemed a good opportunity to snoop.

Other than being on the cramped side, Dale had an office befitting a western lawman. On the window sill sat a line of decorative succulents, planted in individual clay pots. On the bookshelf, at top level, were three large rodeo trophies and the sun-bleached skull of a dead cow, no doubt liberated from some desiccating sand dune in the east Mojave.

I mean, why even have an office if you’re not gonna display one of those?

Those first-place rodeo trophies were evidence of his upbringing, on a farm just outside Fresno. His six-foot-two frame and muscular build were one reason for his athleticism. But in addition, he possessed a certain innate charm. She hadn’t been the only girl with a crush on him in high school; plenty of them giggled at the thought of being pulled over by the one, sexy deputy. In his day he was probably homecoming king too.

Listing at 30-degrees against a stack of hardcover law books—none of which had ever been touched—was a first edition Dance Hall of the Dead. Someone had gifted it to him, and judging from the layers of dust, he’d never once cracked it open. It happened to be her favorite book.

The next level down sheltered a row of portraits, including his wife Miranda and their two young daughters, known to all as “the twins”. Surprisingly, there was even a faded picture of Lyndy herself standing next to her brother, taken on a boat; she was in shorts and a tight shirt. Lyndy was drawn to it, reaching up to feel the textured edge of the dime store brass frame. Somehow, she’d missed this item until now. Judging by her face and more rounded cheeks, she must have been about seventeen.

“Dale has a picture of me in his office?” thought Lyndy.

She took a sudden breath and let go of it. She could feel her emotions rising, and didn’t want to be caught in a state of weakness like this.

Lyndy moved over to the desk, taking a seat in Dale’s office chair and swiveling to face the front. Xeroxed forms, regarding a recent arrest, were strewn all across the top. They were stained with coffee. Resting on the morning paper was a pen, and a large granny smith apple. Lyndy pushed those aside, as the story underneath caught her eye. The fire station a few blocks away had had a kitchen fire, and part of the building was destroyed. Lyndy pulled it closer.

“Well look at you, dressed up all fancy!” Came the excited voice of Dale. He was standing in the doorway. “Going to church?”

Lyndy felt like a child with a hand in the cookie jar. How long had he been there?

Dale tossed his cowboy hat to a peg on the wall, ringing it perfectly. In his other hand he was holding an iced tea from the nearest burger joint.

“You think you can barge in here acting like you own the place?” he said, pulling the door shut behind. Dale was in a cheerful mood, with a big grin on his face. That was a stroke of luck.

Lyndy tapped on her watch. “I was wondering when you were going to show up for duty. Probably out napping under your tree again,” she said, referencing an old salt cedar on the road to Amboy. “There’s a reason you’re known as the laziest deputy in the county.”

Dale scoffed. Picking up the apple, he started juggling it with one hand. “I was at the repair shop. My blazer is getting a tune-up.”

“Well, such a poor excuse might work on me, but I doubt Granville Jackson would believe it.” Lyndy pointed to the newspaper. “You know what else I’m wondering. How do you inspire confidence in your firefighting abilities, when your own building burns down? I guess I’m feeling judgmental today.”

Dale smiled. “Yeah I got the call when it happened—had to help put it out. And I’m not really lazy, I’m simply more efficient than other lawmen.” He lifted up the container of iced tea, putting the straw to his lips. Then he took a seat on his desk in a position facing Lyndy, who was still in his chair.

“I think you re-arranged your office,” said Lyndy. “I don’t remember half this stuff being here.” She gestured vaguely to the shelf with the photographs.

Dale shook his head forlornly, then put a thumb on his temple to massage it. “Well, it’s a tragic story really. My pet rock died of neglect, so it freed up space on the window sill.”

Lyndy choked on her own spit. “Oh man, it’s a hell of a thing when that happens,” she replied, pounding her chest with one fist. “How you holding up big guy?”

“Taking it day by day.”

Lyndy smiled. “One time I bought one of those cute bonsai trees from a guy selling out of a creepy brown van. He swore they were easy to care for. It put it in the window at the airstream. Thing lived two weeks and then croaked; biggest waste of ten bucks ever.”

“Don’t have kids,” laughed Dale. “They don’t just need water. You gotta feed em too.”

Lyndy looked Dale in the eyes. “So, I was wondering somethin. Do I have a good body but a bad face?”

Dale jerked away and blinked. He seemed off guard, rubbing his eyes with his palms. “Sorry, I think I got whiplash from your change of topics.” Dale took a sip of tea. “Who told you that junk?”

“This malcontent biker dude at a bar called Lester’s, in San Bernardino. I want to find out who he is. Our conversation was tense to say the least, and I didn’t get his name.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“You bet he did—and he threatened to hurt a child. He also said I could have been an actress if it weren’t for my face.”

Dale exhaled. “Lyn, don’t let these jokers get under your skin. You can’t curl up in a ball every time some asshole says you’re ugly or fat.”

“I know that,” snapped Lyndy.

“Then why you acting like a teenager with hurt feelings?”

Lyndy wanted to avoid the subject of the Kyle debacle so she shrugged, pretending not to know.

“God knows it happens to me. Want me to stop in and give him a hard time; teach those fools some respect for women?”

“Yes, that might make me feel better,” thought Lyndy. “You mean pound his face in?” she whispered aloud.

Dale nodded once.

Judging from the severe look, Dale would do it, even if jeopardizing his own career.

“Definitely not,” she cautioned sternly, touching Dale’s arm. “Don’t even think about fighting my battles. I’ll handle it. I just came for information is all.”

Lyndy described in detail her run-in with the tall biker. Then Dale left the room for a few minutes to retrieve some suspects from records. He returned with five brown file folders, each having mug shots clipped to the front.

“This is all we got on site. If he’s not here we have to call to HQ.”

Dale fanned them out and immediately Lyndy recognized the man.

“Oh, here he is,” said Lyndy eagerly. She brushed several of the folders out of the way and picked up the thickest file. “Matthew E. Wallach—looks like he’s 43 years old.”

Dale nodded. “That one is a delight. It’s pronounced Wall-Lick,” said Dale. “Among his many specialties is drug trafficking; sometimes brings contraband from central America. He sells it to Hollywood types. He’s on parole as we speak. No passport. He’s not supposed to own a gun or leave town obviously. It’s probably putting a crimp in his style. No wonder he’s more irritable than usual.”

“Does he have a brother?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” said Dale. “It says right here he was the only child of Martha and Thomas Wallach, divorced.” Lyndy spent a few minutes thumbing through the file. The bulk of Wallach’s crimes were committed in the nineteen-sixties. He’d recently done three years in prison at Lompoc, having been paroled the prior spring.

Lyndy closed the file. “Thing is, I’m actually trying to find this other guy named Evan Stone. Wallach said Evan was his brother. Does the name Evan Stone ring any bells?”

Dale shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

Lyndy reclined in the chair and kicked her feet up on the desk. She interlaced her fingers behind her head. “Sorry, while I’ve got you I have to switch gears again. Are you investigating supposed cattle rustling at the JBR ranch?”

Dale shook his head and sneered. “Yeah how about that. I got no leads, cept this vague description of a yellow Jeep seen in the area.” Dale did mock finger quotes. “And I have a hubcap in evidence which I can’t identify. There’s a ninety percent chance that hubcap fell off a hunter’s truck. Whole thing’s a goose-chase the way it is. I wasted half a day over near Government Holes looking for tire marks—problem is there had been thunderstorms and a lot got wiped out. It ain’t like the movies.”

“You think Ted is involved?”

Link to Part-10: La Fierabrosa Part-10