La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-8

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

It felt like a trap. The Spitfire checked in one direction, then the other, on lookout for pedestrians. Feet away, cars were zooming by, but still no parents or other suspicious adults appeared. She circled around Sarah on the sidewalk. Then, folding her black skirt under her butt, Lyndy took a seat on the hot curb. With her hand she shielded her face and eyes from the morning sun, smiling kindly.

Sarah continued to pout. “My momma’s done already left for work. So, either I have to walk all the way, or I need to let somebody call and tell her what happened.”

“Aye yai yai,” replied Lyndy softly, hanging her head in solidarity. She grabbed her ankles, wrapping arms around her knees, making herself small. It was to imitate the girl. She took a breath and exhaled.

Was a time, some complete stranger offered her a ride to school, Lyndy would have jumped at the chance, only to avoid the bus. She ditched a lot of classes. Too many. Aunt Rose hated that, but Octavio never said a word. Living with her aunt and uncle, going to school, it was still preferable to the foster care system.

Lyndy eyed Sarah again, speaking slowly with purpose. “What grade are you in?”

The answer came in a whisper. “Second.”

Lyndy tilted her head diagonally, gesturing to Evan’s address. “See the spooky old house over there, looks like Boo Radley lives in it?”

Sarah lifted her head. She turned to see where Lyndy was pointing, then nodded once.

“Listen, I’m tryin hard to locate an old friend, someone important to me. Is there a girl who lives there, perhaps a year or two younger than you?”

Sarah nodded again, expending a minimum of energy.

“I know you were late today, but do you happen to know if she was on that bus?”

This time Sarah met Lyndy’s steady gaze. She hesitated, a dose of suspicion becoming evident.

“This is very important.”

Sarah shook her head forcefully, her pigtails bouncing.

“How can you be sure?”

“Bus didn’t stop at all, cause we wasn’t here. Neither one of us.” Sarah tightened her grip on the paper sack, kicking her legs out from the curb. She rested her other fist in her lap. “She wasn’t at school yesterday, or day before,” the girl volunteered.

“Oh really,” said Lyndy. “Is she sick or something?”

“I dunno. Her momma came and got her I think. Took her away.”

Lyndy cupped her hands together, breathing into them. Seemed the mom was pulling up stakes. In a way, this kid was a major blessing. One could go three or four days sometimes, without receiving a single helpful tip.

Sarah stared at Lyndy.

“That’s bad news,” said Lyndy.

“Hey, have you been crying too?” asked Sarah innocently.

Lyndy fixed her eyes on Sarah, the false grin wiped clean off her face, replaced by melancholy. Lyndy shrugged.

Perceptive little bugger, wasn’t she.

“I was,” admitted Lyndy, with a sigh. “Like an hour ago. I was definitely crying.”

“What were you cryin about?”

“It was a boy.”

“A boy made you cry?”

“Yep, they’ll do that.” Lyndy chuckled. “But I have like four other boyfriends, so I’ll be over him in a snap.” Lyndy paused, dissecting her own statement.

Sheesh. I am really full of it today.

Sarah continued staring.

For a moment, Lyndy considered offering the poor kid a ride. But that would be unwise, attracting scrutiny; no good deed like that goes unpunished. She eyed all the nearby residences. Someone could be seeing their exchange right now, thumb on the dial, just waiting to ring the cops.

“Sarah, did you ever see a dad at that house? The one we were just talking about?”

Sarah looked down. She was concentrating, and that was good, but after a few seconds she shook her head.

Lyndy set a finger lightly to her own lips, affecting a serious tone. “Look, I’d like to surprise my friend, you know. So please if you can, don’t tell anybody, especially any adults, about our little conversation; keep it between us.”

Sarah nodded affirmatively.

“Thanks.”

Sarah wiped her eyes and nose with the back of her hands. She sniffed once more with fervor, clearing her nostrils, then jumped to her feet. Clutching her lunch against her chest, she presented a renewed look of determination.

“So, what are you gonna do now?” asked Lyndy, preparing to stand herself.

“I think I’ll walk,” said Sarah.

“Good idea.” Lyndy had seen enough. “Think I’ll jet, myself.”

 

 

Now in theory, second gear was fully synchronized, but it sure didn’t behave that way. Lyndy cringed each time she felt the gears mesh, producing a worrisome crunching noise, intolerable as a dental drill.

Due to the season, The Spitfire had chosen not to wear pantyhose with her skirt, and she could visualize her legs growing tanner by the minute; arms too.

Navigating the commercial back streets, at least things were quieter. The road surface was crumbling, just as at Evan’s old place a few blocks away. Here and there, determined weeds were pushing through the cracks, in places where tar hadn’t drowned them.

There was something off-putting in this town. The Spitfire could not pinpoint what, only a sinister feeling about the area, covered over with corrugated metal warehouses and diesel repair businesses. It was putting her on heightened vigilance.

A sign pasted on an elevated billboard advertised 19 cent tacos—for taco Tuesday—

a local joint with a sombrero wearing bandito mascot.

Ever notice how as soon as you start a diet, your favorite food goes on sale?

Besides, Lyndy was holding out for a Double-Double at In-N-Out. To heck with the beach party.

And then a disturbing image, like a specter from a prior life, entered her peripheral vision. She might have missed it, were it not for her state of mind.

Right there in the middle of the street, Lyndy slammed on the brakes. Being old style drum brakes, they of course locked—about the only thing that wasn’t worn out—causing her tires to screech. She checked for any cars coming up behind, then immediately forced the shifter into reverse. Rolling backwards, this time in a controlled fashion, she pulled parallel to the business.

It was a typical biker bar, with a name Lester’s emblazoned on a blown-out neon sign. A pair of Harley Davidsons were slanted peacefully out front. But what had attracted Lyndy’s attention was a small porcelain sign in a corner window, reading: “Sorry, No Dogs or Mexicans Allowed.”

Was it a trick of the eyes, an illusion like the mirages on 66? Lyndy read the sign again, slower in cadence this time, pronouncing each syllable in her mind. Yep. Still racist as all get out. At least they were “Sorry” about it.

She felt her stomach turn, like after bad calamari. But then anger boiling up and adrenaline, making her fingers tingle.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lyndy mouthed.

The engine was idling, orange needle creeping up again.

Instinctively she reached for her hairbrush; it had been carelessly deposited on the dash. She started feverishly fixing her hair, brushing so hard that hairs were breaking in clumps.

Speaking to herself: “Okay chiquita, is this any of your business? Answer: No. It’s a free country.” Lyndy took a conscious breath, attempting to calm herself. She threw down the brush and clenched both hands on the wheel. “If you go in there, you’re bound to regret it. Remember, you are supposed to be working on Chan’s case, not busting heads in a bar. And calling Chan from jail is the pinnacle of embarrassment, especially when you have to explain why you threw somebody out a window. And then Mr. Lovelace will have to bail you out, and Rita Lovelace will laugh, and you’ll be even deeper in hock.”

Lyndy stomped on the gas, taking a blast around the block. But she returned to the same spot, breathing hard, only with a clearer head. Still no action. She parallel parked the maroon Jeep across the street, leaving it in neutral.

Lyndy rotated all the way to the right. From her vantage point, she made mental note of all the vehicles in the parking lot: a 70 or 71 Dodge Challenger, an old panel truck and a beat up International Scout visible in the back. Including the bikes out front, there wasn’t likely to be greater than four or five persons lurking inside. On the other hand, it wasn’t going to be a meeting of the library society. The Spitfire reached under the seat to retrieve the Beretta, checking it hastily and shoving it in her purse.

Lyndy commenced marching across the 4-lane street.

There were certain mysteries at the center of modern life, for instance, what the heck does that middle pedal on a grand piano do?  And more to the point, how the hell does one go about acquiring vintage hate memorabilia? Is there a catalog? One of those questions was about to be answered.

The wooden door to Lester’s was substantial, with one of those macho twisted iron pull bars. And as The Spitfire yanked it wide open, it creaked, flooding the space with natural light. Like a cliché of an old west saloon, every head in the room turned to look at her.

Two guys were drinking pints on round stools. It was a Tuesday morning—talk about alcoholism. One guy was tending bar. In the center of the room stood a tall man, perhaps six-three, wearing a leather vest. He was setting up a new game on the pool table, still clutching the plastic triangle. A half-eaten breakfast sandwich rested on a plate at the rail.

The tall man sported a red beard with full sideburns that turned into mutton chops, and a tidy handlebar mustache. He looked like a pirate, and was clearly ‘the group leader’ of sorts. The whole place felt reminiscent of some ghost town watering hole. Hanging from the far wall rested a tidily cared for rebel flag.

“Howdy,” said Lyndy. “I would like to speak to the owner please.”

“Can I help you with something?” asked the tall man.

“Yeah, where’s the owner at? I request he take his sign down.”

Time froze. The hairs on her arms started to perk up, and in the back of Lyndy’s mind she heard a spooky sound, a la Ennio Morricone. She might as well have announced she was Elvis.

Another thing went through Lyndy’s mind: “If Hector were here now, he would have a good laugh at me.”

Lyndy adjusted her purse on her shoulder. “Oh, come on now people. I can’t be the first person to complain about it.”

A loud plunk interrupted the silence when the bartender spit a wad of tobacco into a real, old fashioned spittoon.

The tall man grinned coyly. “Look, I’m the owner, and I rescued that sign from a bar which was being torn down in Bakersfield; it’s an antique.” He picked up a piece of blue chalk, rubbing it over the tip of a pool stick. “What’s your name little lady?” He was clearly delighted by her sudden arrival.

“Lyndy Martinez,” she declared.

Crap. Crap. Crap. Why did I just blurt out my real name?

The man had been leaning over ready to break game, but stopped instantly and shot up straight. His demeanor changed, and she realized he must know her. Bad news. Should have said Cathy.

The tall man frowned. “Oh, is that so?” he said. Suddenly, he started laughing, quite loudly. He had to brace himself against the pool table, using his free hand.

Except it wasn’t much of a knee slapper to anybody else. The other three dudes weren’t in on the joke, only pretending to be amused, so as not to insult their boss.

Finally getting himself under some semblance of control their leader added: “Let me get something straight. Are there two women named Lyndy Martinez in this county?” Then he stuck his hand in the air to indicate immense height, tilting his head to the bar. “By god boys! This is the same six-foot-tall ball-busting, backyard-wresting Latina that’s been terrorizing the entire gang!” Turning his attention back to Lyndy he said, “I mean I have got guys walking around with one eye, saying it was you they tangled with. Looks like I need to have a talk with them. What are you like 120 pounds?”

Of all the bars, in all the world ….

“Around 135,” corrected Lyndy. She put her hand on her hip.

The extra 15 – solid muscle. Wink.

The tall man chuckled again. “Well, I am a bit surprised to see you. Hector Martinez was one ugly son of a bitch. For some reason I was expecting more of the same from his bloodline. But actually, you’re reasonably attractive and you’ve got a nice rack. If it weren’t for your face, you would be a real pretty girl. You could have been an acress,” he said.

“Gee, how charming,” replied Lyndy. She exhaled. “Then since you seem to know me already, why don’t we skip the rest of the niceties and get to the main course. I’m looking for a gentleman who’s missed two court appearances. He used to live around here. Maybe he still does. I figure he came in this bar from time to time.”

The Spitfire’s attention was diverted by one of the goons at the bar, rising from his chair. He flexed his hands, menace evident in his unfeeling eyes.

“Hey Gomer Pyle redneck,” she shouted, pointing an accusing finger. “I am in an exceptionally bad mood. If you value breathing through your nose and eating solid food, you’ll sit your ass right back down.”

The man at first refused to yield.

“Go ahead. Test me right now,” added Lyndy. “Or do you think those stories are an exaggeration?”

Their leader reassured his drunken friend. “Cool your jets Wayne. Relax. Drink your beer.”

Reluctantly, drunk and stupid Wayne eased off the throttle.

Resuming a solo game, the tall dude lined up for his next shot “This gentleman as you were saying, what’s his name?” He knocked the six-ball in the corner pocket, but he used excessive force. There must be a reason he was giving her an opportunity to speak. And it probably had something to do with the bounty hunter.

“It’s Evan P. Stone.” Uneasy silence ensued again; the name was familiar.

“That’s my brother,” replied the tall man.

Now to The Spitfire, what he said could either mean they were in the same gang together, or that they were truly biological brothers. “Seems pretty unlikely,” she said with a frown. Lyndy was expecting him to elaborate, but he went in a different direction.

“You know something senorita, I was in the Marines for two tours of duty. After I was discharged, I started the chrome plating shop down the street. I made a little money, and I bought this bar.”

“What did you do in the Marines?” Lyndy inquired.

The man reacted as if it were a weird and impertinent question. “I was a medic,” he answered grumpily. He knocked another ball in the opposite corner pocket.

Lyndy shifted her weight and folded her arms. “Okay look, you boys are a real hoot, but is Evan here or not?”

“Nope. He’s not.”

“So, if I were to take a peek in the men’s room, or whatever else is back there, you’re telling me I won’t find anyone cowering like a frightened animal?”

“Have at it.”

Instead, Lyndy bided her time, scanning the room with her eyes. She met each man’s stare. Then, with resolve in her heart, she marched to the window. She reached past a threadbare curtain for the porcelain sign. As her finger set upon it, she heard a sharp click behind her. He must have had a gun in a hidden spot near the pool table.

“Please don’t touch that,” came the voice.

Lyndy lowered her arms, turning and bracing her back against the wall. The gun was a snub-nose revolver; not the most accurate. At a range of ten feet though, it was as easy as hitting a barn.

She could feel her heart thumping. The old Spitfire would have done something rash right about now. These clowns were no match for her abilities. But if she turned this place into a scene from The Godfather, then she wouldn’t get paid.

On the other hand, she would walk away with that sign.

[Link to Part-9: La Fierabrosa Part-9]

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-7

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Ever reach for a plastic solo cup at an outdoor party, thinking it’s your own, take a swig, and then realize in horror you don’t recognize the taste? Instead of your favorite beer, it tastes like Pickle Fizz, or god forbid, something worse. Some days that’s what life is like.

Using the tip of a plastic spork, Kyle pointed in the direction of the Old Woman Mountains, visible as a ragged outline of rock on the horizon. “There’s a decent amount of moisture building in the air. Have you noticed? I believe we’re in for a second round of thunderstorms this afternoon.”

“You’re an armchair weather predictor now?” teased Lyndy.

“Of course. I have multiple talents.” Kyle squirted a packet of hot sauce onto his eggs.

“I’ll bet,” said Lyndy, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Did it rain here yesterday?”

“Only a few drops, mostly it was virga. I hope it rains cats and dogs here. For one thing, my tent could use a good rinse.”

“My trailer could use a wash also,” agreed Lyndy.

Kyle glanced over to the tent, as if checking on something important. “Also, I was going over my field notes last night. Would you believe there hasn’t been a single tortoise spotted all season? I’ve been on the lookout too. I guess they’re in need of water.”

Lyndy considered quizzing Kyle about the yellow jeep, except she was too anxious to get to the punchline; enough small talk. She swirled her cup a few times. “So, you uh …. hear about Todd’s party on Saturday? The one at the river?” She intentionally took a long sip of coffee, while keeping eyes laser-focused on Kyle’s face. She didn’t want to miss his response, involuntary or otherwise.

“I have heard about it,” replied Kyle. “Todd left an invitation on my car. And Debbie Kowalski—you know the geochemist from Cal-State—she got one too.”

Leaving notes for Kyle was a primary method people used to communicate with him. Should he be hammering away out on the cliffs, typically no one bothered to hike up there.

All Lyndy could think was, “where was her own personal invitation?” She’d checked the post office box on Monday. Nada.

A quiet moment passed.

“Are you going then?” coaxed Lyndy, trying to move things along.

“Mmm, hmm,” mumbled Kyle, with a mouth full of food.

“With anyone?”

Kyle frowned, planting his spork perfectly upright in the remaining eggs. He wiped his mouth clean on his shirt sleeves. Then he turned away from the mountain views to meet Lyndy’s eyes, shifting his weight onto the arm of his chair. He cleared his throat. “I already asked Debbie.”

Kyle had about five days’ worth of beard growth.

“Who in the hell is Debbie?” demanded Lyndy.

“I just told you,” said Kyle, holding out open palms. “Debbie Kowalski. You acted like you knew her thirty seconds ago.”

Lyndy shook her head. “Is it me, or does Debbie Kowalski seem like a totally made up person,” she challenged. “Did you invent her so you don’t have to give me bad news?”

Kyle pounded his forehead with his fist. “Why would I do that? She isn’t made up. You’ve met her. She’s a graduate student who works in the chemistry labs. She’s a geo-chemist. At Cal state. You, me and her are the same age.”

In this case, ‘Cal State’ was short for California State University, San Bernardino. The campus had geologists, biologists, historians and anthropologists performing research in various remote corners of the desert.

The Spitfire still seemed incredulous.

“She’s real Lyndy! She’s been to the camp several times. I introduced you.”

Lyndy racked her brain. “Wait, you mean the chubby redhead with the curly hair? The girl who wiped her hands off after she shook mine? And I heard her whispering that my hairstyle and makeup are ‘weird and creepy’ behind my back.”

There was another pause. “Based on your description, that might be her.”

“Sorry … I mean, she isn’t … so bad,” stammered Lyndy, folding her arms. “I’m sure she’s nice in a way.”

Kyle tilted his head to one side. “In all fairness, you are pretty weird,” he said calmly.

“Then you don’t want to date me anymore?”

The oh-so clever plan was backfiring, horribly.

Noticing a hurt look on Lyndy, Kyle exhaled deeply. “I guess I have to come out and say it. First off, you are a bit anti-social. You think the worst of anyone new you meet. And another problem, you manipulate men. You’re like one of the hot chicks in high school who asked me to help them with their math homework, and then acted like they didn’t know me the next day. I mean, how many boyfriends do you have? You shouldn’t be using men every time you feel lonely.”

“So … you’re upset because I’m using you for … love?” Lyndy whispered angrily. “I feel like we need a chalkboard out here.”

“Look, I’m sorry to be hard on you. Trust me, you are ‘single guy’s fantasy’ hot. I just want to be with somebody normal for a while. Somebody I can picture having a long-term relationship with.”

“Got it. No need to beat a dead horse.”

Lyndy could feel emotions rising inside, near to the bursting point. She brushed the food crumbs from the pleats of her skirt. While standing to leave, she put up a hand to hide her eyes. “I really need to go. I’m supposed to be working on a big important case for Mr. Chan.” She went digging in her purse for the keys, and her sunglasses too. “Burnin daylight.”

I need to go lick my wounds, that is.

Lyndy took a few dejected steps toward the Jeep. She was disappointed, but Kyle’s sudden change of heart wasn’t completely unforeseen. The way he explained sounded reasonable. And that by itself was cause for suspicion.

Lyndy stopped abruptly. With hot tears pooling in each eye, threatening to destroy her eyeliner, the spitfire glared at Kyle. She noticed he had food particles stuck in his beard.

Kyle let his gaze wander—a single furtive look over at the tent was all it took.

“Okay, okay, stop the presses. She’s here, isn’t she?”

Kyle pretended to be interested in his coffee. “Who?”

“In the tent. Debbie. Before I leave with my tail between my legs, do I at least get the pleasure of meeting this chick, for the second time apparently?” Lyndy made a move for the tent. Kyle jumped up to try and stop her—splashing hot coffee on his legs—but Lyndy darted ahead to open the zippers. She was wearing grippier tennis shoes, so she could run fast.

In one smooth motion she rolled the zipper all the way to the roof, peering in. There, half covered by a sleeping bag, but still showing bare skin on her chest, was one Cathy Marie Cookson. Lyndy was momentarily star-struck, even feeling dizziness coming on.

She had been expecting Mountain Dew, but this was pure Pickle Fizz.

“Howdy there Lyndy,” said Cathy cheerfully. As always, her voice was breathy, with a hint of a country twang. She even smiled. With her big velvet-colored fake nails, it was a wonder she could wait tables at all. “So, are ya goin’ to Todd’s party?”

“Hi Cathy,” said Lyndy, dryly.

“Hon, is now a bad time to ask what you’re planning to wear?”

Please, please no fainting today.

“Uhm, I’m thinking it probably is,” said Cathy.

Instead of answering Cathy’s question, Lyndy turned back to Kyle, while still holding onto the flap of the tent. “You’re a damn good liar,” she said.

Kyle started to say something, but Lyndy just held up her hand. “Don’t bother.”

“I sure hope they have Malibu Rum,” added Cathy.

 

Minutes later …

 

Back on the open road, and Lyndy needed both hands to press the shifter into third gear. Sometimes it took convincing. She was still sniffling, wiping away an occasional stray tear on her upper arms. Her makeup could easily be reapplied, but her ego felt worse for the wear. Score a point for the blonde waitress.

Lyndy put her weight into the accelerator pedal. She untangled her sunglasses from her blowing hair, sliding them down on the bridge of her nose. Then she merged onto the I-15, headed south. Time to roll with the out-of-state big rigs.

Lyndy sniffed. Great to know if I lose my job at Chan’s, I can always run away and join the circus … as a freak. At least according to Kyle and friends.

Between Bell Mountain and Summit, the road was so arrow straight a steering wheel wasn’t required. It was still early morning, that unforgiving heat having yet to build. Lyndy searched the horizon for hints of cumulous clouds, or any precursors to afternoon T-storms. Though none were present, she hoped Kyle’s prediction of rain would be correct. Either way, she wouldn’t be returning here until after sundown.

From her awkward meeting with Chan—it felt longer than 24 hours past—Lyndy had received a helpful clue. Now she stared at the square of yellow paper, gripped firmly between her long and ring fingers. It was an address for the ex-wife of Evan Stone and their kindergarten-age child. Odds were miniscule a person like that could be of any assistance. Spouses and former lovers were usually too downtrodden, or else emotionally on the side of their partner. And unfortunately, speaking to kids was just as dicey—one didn’t want to endanger them.

Yet by process of elimination, this was the place she needed to start, and hopefully some tangent or loose end would lead to the next discovery; the methodology was non-linear in every sense. If only Evan had a regular place of employment, it would make things so much easier.

Was there such a thing as a routine case at Chan’s? Not in the least.

 

Leaving the high desert lands behind, Lyndy crested Cajon Pass, then dropped a further two thousand feet in elevation. The Jeep favored downhills. Her destination was the inland empire, a low-lying sector of the county somewhat resembling civilization. In addition to the county seat of government, it was a place beset with pollution and higher crime, almost LA in magnitude. The sky devolved to a worsening shade of brown.

The steel mills of Fontana, among other industries, generated heavy smog which became trapped by the 6500-foot-high mountains and inversion layers—it was some kind of atmospheric science voodoo—nature’s pressure cooker. Such a town made one appreciate the clear desert air and sunshine, so long as you could tolerate the weather pattern.

As she arrived in town, the workday was getting underway, and main boulevards were clogged. Lyndy steered her way to one of the quieter side streets. She pulled over, underneath the shade of a giant magnolia and set the parking break. With the motor off, one could hear leaves rustling overhead and many birds. Two doors away, a Doberman started barking at her from the other side of a wrought iron fence.

Lyndy watched a white mustang roll by; it was a 67 or 68 model with the fastback. She stepped out, unfolding a large-scale AAA street map across the hood of the Jeep. People used to call these “traveling salesman maps”, the kind naming every road. Tracing with the tip of her glasses, she pinpointed the exact street and probable house location, a half mile further north in the residential zone.

Venturing onward, it became clear this was the sort of working class neighborhood dominated by renters. Butting up against fire-prone foothills, the land had originally been less costly for developers to obtain. The houses were all two and three-bedroom bungalows, having plain stucco siding and shingle roofs; they exhibited zero character one-to-another. Hector had a name for these unattractive abodes: shit-boxes.

The paved lane was laid out in a giant half-circle, eventually looping around from east back to westerly. Even by rental standards, this area was a dump. Derelict cars littered the driveways and side lots. Lawns featured dead or dying grass. Broken windows were hastily repaired with duct tape, tracing all along the path of cracks. It had the feel of El Sereno, but the latter being in Los Angeles, was a far more culturally respected place.

The houses didn’t come with attached garages, just a concrete driveway and carport. On some, a house number was stenciled on the mail box. Others, only a small inset on the curb identified them. It took a bit of sleuthing, but at last, The Spitfire located a unit matching the one from Chan’s records.

There were no outside markings, but her confidence was high since the surrounding numbers were correct. She turned down her radio volume, chugging slowly by in first gear, and trying not to draw any suspicion. The house had a picture window facing front, but there were too many reflections to see indoors. Half of it was shaded by an overgrown elm tree and untrimmed bushes. To the left of the door, and shy of the front awning, a five-dollar plastic lawn chair stood coated in mold and dirt. It was the kind aged by the California sun, ready to collapse the moment an unwitting person sat down, making you feel like a fat cow. Personal experience.

The driveway was devoid of cars. A parting glance revealed black oil stains, so someone had been staying there. Nothing guaranteed the house was also vacant, but without a vehicle, it seemed likely. She’d need to be on foot to determine how fresh those oil stains were.

Lyndy had the urge to stick her arm in Evan’s mailbox. Tempting, but it entailed too much risk. Probably a few grumpy letters from Chan in the mix. The Spitfire didn’t want to scare anybody off; too soon for that. Of course, if you were serious about circumventing Johnny Law, you would park a block or two away and keep the lights out at night. Such were the uncertainties of the game, and Lyndy had left her brown package delivery costume at home.

Lyndy continued on up the street, moving in second gear at a constant speed. Nothing unusual to see here, just a typical Latina private detective, driving a craptastic purple Jeep, dressed in all black like a person headed to a funeral.

At the nearest intersection, The Spitfire turned off to the side, five doors away and around the corner from the house in question. She let the engine idle, glancing at her watch. She hesitated to take a chance passing by in the Jeep again, in case there were any Mrs. Kravitz types keeping watch on the block. The temp needle was rising, so Lyndy shut off the ignition. She looked around and let out a yawn.

Lyndy took both hands off the wheel. Feeling thirsty, she downed the last of her coffee and stretched to reach the igloo cooler. But she remembered she’d forgotten to fill it. There would be no cold water, or sodas for that matter. She put her head back and shut her eyes. She just needed to think.

“Okay, first of all, it’s a Tuesday—anybody who has a normal job is out now. Even fugitives need to make money,” she thought. The place just seems too quiet. “Either nobody is staying there, or call me mickey mouse.”

Seconds later, a yellow school bus thundered by on the left, spewing forth a fog of smelly exhaust. Lyndy pinched her nose. She could see in the windows that the bus was packed with rowdy kids. Her body shuddered, having memories of riding the bus in second grade. Those things were miserable, like rolling torture chambers.

“I just want to be with somebody normal for a while … somebody I can picture having a long-term relationship with.”

“Crapola!”

Lyndy pounded on the wheel, letting out a groan. The duplicitous words of Kyle were still resonating in her brain. Yes. Normal old Cathy Marie Cookson, biggest bimbo in the Mojave.

But if this rejection was simply over some stupid river party, why did it sting so bad?

Lyndy exhaled. On to plan-B: try and interview a willing neighbor, or leave a Martinez Investigations card. Lyndy decided to chance it, make a U-turn, have another spin around the neighborhood loop, but this time in the opposite direction. She checked her mirrors, ready to pull into traffic.

It was then Lyndy noticed a small girl, seated curbside with her head down. Using one hand, Lyndy adjusted her center mirror for a better view. The little girl had her head resting on her arms, which were bridging across her knees. She appeared to be crying.

Perhaps this trip wasn’t a waste after all.

The Spitfire hopped out, using the roll cage as a support to spring off. Feet on the sidewalk, she adjusted her pleated skirt. She rubbed her butt with both hands; it had become numb from sitting too long. Then she reached for her leather purse, looping the strap over her head.

Lyndy checked her surroundings. She needed to be sure the coast was clear in all directions. Some places, just looking Hispanic made it seem you were up to no good.

Lyndy started walking. As she came near, the little girl popped her head up. She had pretty blue eyes full of tears, and attractive dirty blonde hair in pigtails.

“Hi there,” said Lyndy, in as friendly a tone as she could manage.

The girl was clutching a paper sack lunch, as if setting it down might mean forfeiting it. The girl’s parent, or whomever, at least cared enough to pack a lunch.

“Why are you sad?” asked Lyndy.

The girl shook her head, but said nothing in response. Still, she watched Lyndy attentively, her eyes wide.

Lyndy put her hands on her knees and leaned over. “I know, I get it,” she remarked. “It’s generally a bad idea to talk to strangers. You really should never do it.” Lyndy gave her a gentle smile. “How bout I just tell you my name? My name’s Catherine.” She snickered internally.

“Sarah,” whispered the girl.

“So, what’s with all the tears?”

Sarah pointed a finger up the street. “Missed the bus … again.” The little girl said it like it was the biggest problem in the modern world.

“Oh, you’re right. I saw it go by a minute ago.”

“And I skipped my oatmeal, so I could try an catch it.” Her lip was quivering.

“Oh no,” said Lyndy. “What a debacle!”

Lyndy Life Tip #151: There really is no such thing as an ‘instant breakfast’. Go ahead. Ponder that one a moment.

[Link to Part-8: La Fierabrosa Part-8]

 

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-6

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

[Merry Christmas / Happy Holidays everybody!–ASC]

Lyndy tried to look Ted in the eyes as she listened to his story, but he kept turning away. Abruptly, he pulled his hand from her grip and stood up. Discomfort was evident on his face as he strode across the room. It was the sort of look a man made when holding in a painful secret.

The east wall at Roy’s had been lavishly decorated with framed photographs. All black and white, they consisted of actors, singers, and other notable folk who once traveled Route-66 through the Mojave. Some of the names weren’t exactly A-listers, their former claims to fame now known only to Roy. And if you looked too closely, the frames were in serious need of dusting.

“Actually Lyn, I got my ass fired from my job today,” Ted admitted.

“Oh my god. Really?” Lyndy spun around in her stool. “How?”

“Does that surprise you?” replied Ted.

“Yeah of course. You’re the hardest working cowboy at the JBR ranch. Come to think of it, you’re the hardest working person I know.” Lyndy hoped her honesty shone through, because the facts were undisputed.

“Then tell that to Rob Albright,” Ted lamented.

Lyndy’s pants were starting to feel extra tight around the stomach region. She stood up, saying, “Excuse me, but I feel like an overstuffed chimichanga.” Then she closed one eye, making a deliberately funny face as she struggled with the top-most of three buttons.

Ted glanced away bashfully, as Lyndy got reseated.

“These jeans are flawless so long as you don’t try an eat a meal in ‘em.” Lyndy exhaled a sigh of sweet relief. “So, did they at least give you a final paycheck? Maybe we can drive to Vegas and stick it in a slot machine, or blow it on Mexican beers.”

“They’re withholding it, pending an investigation.”

“Sheesh. Talk about kicking a guy when he’s down.” Lyndy had been preparing for a heart-to-heart on romantic date failures, not a case of wrongful termination.

Ted slid his fingers in the front pockets of his wrangler jeans, pacing the tile floor by the non-functioning jukebox. A sound of cowboy boots clicking deep and hollow, resonated louder than the cicadas. “See, we’re missing 15 head, and Rob is convinced I’m the cause, since they were under my watch.”

Lyndy blinked her eyes. “You mean like, uh… the old fashioned ….” she waved an arm in the air, attempting to conjure a seldom used term, “cattle rustling?” After speaking the words aloud, Lyndy had trouble keeping a straight face.

Ted nodded his head. “It’s been a few days. I mean, I have looked every place I can think of. Damn cows flew the coop.”

Now it was turning into an episode of Rawhide.

“I understand if it seems abnormal. But to Rob Albright, this is dead serious business.”

Lyndy shoved a few more french fries in her mouth. “So why exactly does Rob believe they were stolen?” she asked, speaking through her food. “Any evidence?”

Ted shook his head. “He doesn’t know. We’re talking about a ranch spanning 30,000 acres. But again, this problem happened under my watch.”

“You ever had a cow go missing?”

“Never.”

“Have space aliens been ruled out? You know they love cows.”

Ted froze in momentary silence. “Sorry. I think I’m too upset to laugh.”

“No need to apologize,” replied Lyndy, fanning herself. “That joke was so awful I ought to sue myself.”

A crack of a smile curled at the edges of Ted’s mouth.

Lyndy spun a full 360 in her stool. She frowned, resting elbows on her thighs. Given a choice between a steely-eyed fugitive, worth potentially thousands of dollars, and a herd of missing bovines, the response she should give Ted seemed obvious.

“Oh. I do have two clues,” Ted announced.

“Whelp, that’s better than I usually get,” said Lyndy. “Lay em on me.”

Ted reached in his back pocket, the one harboring his wallet. He approached the counter, smoothing out a crinkled page torn from a sketchbook. An artist by training, Ted was adept at sketching.

“There’s an old corral, over by the wells at Government Holes, and a cattle chute—like one of those wooden boat ramps. Rob made Deputy Keynes come out on a special trip, and he was lookin for any kind of tire tracks and stuff. Normally there’s a mess of vehicle tracks all over, since the public’s allowed to be there. Cept there had been thunderstorms, so most of the ground is smoothed over. Dale found a dented steel hubcap which he took with him. I sketched it from memory. And I don’t recognize this make at all.”

Ted leaned over to brush some dirt from his cowboy boot. “Course I been looking at every car and truck on the dang road. Ain’t seen one like it yet.” Ted exhaled slowly, finally meeting Lyndy’s eyes. “And I could already tell from Dale’s face he’s painting this as an inside job. He doesn’t like me for some reason.”

Ted slid the sketch over to Lyndy. Though precisely drawn, it appeared as any other stamped metal hubcap, save for one sharp indentation.

Lyndy narrowed her gaze, squeezing her chin between her thumb and index finger. “Wait. So, Deputy Keynes doesn’t like you?” Though phrasing the question as if she were unaware, Lyndy had a hunch at the reasons.

“Heck no. Ever since the day I came to town, that guy has had it in for me. One time he wrote me a speeding ticket for doing 38 in a 35 zone—in my green farm truck that can’t even reach 50.” Ted pointed to the parking lot. “An another time he arrested me for disorderly conduct and public drunkenness. But I literally had one watered down beer that night.”

The idea of Ted being disorderly about anything was difficult to envision.

“Well anyways.” Ted retrieved his wallet from his back pocket, thumbing through the cash. “I’ve got a hundred fifty.” Ted offered it to Lyndy in one folded bundle. “I don’t know how much private detectives cost.”

Lyndy put both hands over Ted’s, covering the cash. “You’re my friend,” she said, pushing his arm away. He stood in stunned silence for a moment. It was hard for a proud man like him to accept help.

More of the ice in Lyndy’s cup had melted away, and she probed with the straw in her mouth, sucking up liquid mixed with air bubbles. “What was the other clue?”

“Oh. The other thing is, I seen a yellow Jeep, brand new, in places nobody normal ever drives. I saw it one time at Rock Spring, and once at Government Holes, and I was about to stop the person but they sped away. It doesn’t have a trailer hitch on. So unless they hired a secret partner, I doubt it’s connected. But I figured it’s worth mentioning.”

Lyndy’s eyes got big. She lifted her head suddenly and inhaled, a sound audible from across the room.

“What is it?” inquired Ted.

Lyndy shrugged, feigning innocence.

“Your ears totally perked up.” He moved to the counter, leaning next to Lyndy.

“Nothing,” said Lyndy.

“I dunno, that was the same noise you make when you figure somethin out.” Ted reached for his hat, grabbing and sticking it atop his head. He started making his way to the door. At the threshold he paused, pointing to a picture high on the wall. “Say Lyn, you ever ask Buster about the headshot of Burt Lancaster.”

“I didn’t even know that was Burt Lancaster,” replied Lyndy, straining to see. “I assume he’s one of the famous dudes who stayed here.”

“But the writing.” In the corner of the photo was cursive writing.

“You can read that?”

“Yep,” Ted nodded. “Just read it for the first time. It says: Thanks for all the sushi!” Ted appeared confused. “Who in the heck would order sushi here?”

“Why would Roy and Buster ever serve sushi?” added Lyndy.

“And he said ‘all the sushi’, implying a large quantity. You really ought to ask Buster for an explanation. Place gets weirder every day.”

 

The next morning …

 

Contrary to some people’s rosy beliefs, there exists such a thing as a career criminal. The best of them seemed to evade the law on pure instinct, like a fox out-maneuvering a pack of frantic hounds. Does the fox ever get away on a hunt?

Of course he does.

The Spitfire awoke to the gentle click of her nightstand alarm clock, turning over the hour paddle. She opened an eye. The inch-wide gap in the window curtain was black. Not yet first light; even the sun wasn’t ready to get up.

Lyndy breathed deep, gripping her forehead with both palms.

“So, to review, I hardly worked ten minutes on Chan and Lovelace’s case, the one that is paying me. I waste a whole afternoon fixing my car, then I agree to take another case pro-bono for a former boyfriend, principally because he’s hot. How much do I even know about the ranching business? Fantastic.”

In the far distance a train whistle blew, probably at the Amboy crossing guards. It was an early morning intermodal bound for Williams Arizona, and the big diesels generated a low rumble which carried in all directions, filling the valley.

Lyndy rolled over in her double bed to face the flip clock. Inside, a tiny yellow bulb flickered to illuminate the time. It read 05:00. She wanted to sleep an hour more, but that goal was hopeless. Lyndy felt as alert as a toddler after a Dunkin’ donut run. One reason, the excessive temps in her bedroom; the night before she’d simply been too tired to notice.

The Spitfire forgot where exactly she first heard one silly expression—perhaps at The Vanishing Point—but the trailer park regulars used to quip: “It ain’t home til you take the wheels off.” In such a case, Lyndy’s Wayne Manor was an airstream mounted on cinder blocks, where the rent charge totaled $50 a year. Or looking at it another way, 14 cents per day. The mining company’s lots were isolated, surrounded by scrubland, with a quarter-mile long rutted driveway. But Lyndy preferred it that way. You could easily hear people coming.

Lyndy reached for the light switch cord and yanked on it. She pushed off her single sheet. Affixed to the bedroom wall was a bank calendar, nearly two years out of cycle. She rubbed her eyes until she could read it. The calendar featured a photo of wolves in snow.

Lyndy counted up on her fingers. “Hmm. If I leave that page up 4 more years, then it will be correct again.”

On the carpet floor in front of the door was a black bra, same one she’d been wearing the prior afternoon. The Spitfire folded her legs, squeezing her ankles and pushing down her knees to get a better stretch. She stared at her bare thighs; plenty of black stubble was visible. Undoubtedly, there existed a middle ground on the subject of leg hair. Sometimes hippie chick was a fine look.

For visiting the geology camp though, The Spitfire needed a spicier outfit, in case Kyle Ellis really was there. And if it required shorts or a skirt, then shaving seemed a necessary evil. Personal goal for Tuesday: no more fainting spells.

Lyndy scooted sideways and reached for the closet handles. She eased the slider panels to one side, letting items tumble forth in as orderly a fashion as possible. There was an outfit she favored, and it would pair well with hiking boots. She began sorting through her collection of short sleeve tops, while brushing her hair.

Still in underwear bottoms and a dodger blue t-shirt, Lyndy moved to the cooking area, at the midsection of the trailer. She retrieved the metal percolator pot, filling it with water from the tap. She placed several coarse scoops from the coffee can in the top chamber, then set the percolator on the stove. Next, she twisted on the propane gas—it made a hissing sound like an angry snake—lighting it with a paper match.

While the water boiled, Lyndy dug in the medicine cabinet until she found a small can of men’s shaving cream. She also sought out a safety razor, and commenced shaving her legs in the kitchen, using the chair as a prop.

How’s this for a shaving thought: if animals like desert foxes rely on instincts for survival, and DNA is the code of life, then how on god’s earth are instincts passed down? It’s not like the mother fox has to teach every trick in the book. It defied all logical explanation. Could anyone unravel the mystery?

 

Thirty minutes later ….

 

Lyndy rubbed thick lotion all over her hands. She shoved a fresh pack of Newports in her purse, then stashed the Beretta underneath the seat. The Jeep was indeed running a lot smoother; not like a young car, but Russ was correct in her diagnosis of poor spark. What a wonder proper voltage could do.

First on the day’s agenda, pay a visit to the geology camp—unannounced of course—the perfect opportunity to surprise anyone you only half-trusted.

As usual, The Spitfire had a secret plan. Her passenger seat smelled delightful, thanks to two Denver omelets and two steaming cups of black coffee. Each omelet was packed neatly in a Styrofoam container. Lyndy had gone all-out at the truck stop. She even had the individually wrapped plastic silverware set, with salt, pepper and ketchup packets. This was sure to win Kyle over; he could hardly resist.

The sun was peeking out over the Clipper Mountains as she switched off the ignition. The AMC engine ran-on a few turns—per normal operation—going clunk-clunk-clunk.

The camp location felt peaceful and serene; to the casual observer deserted. Except it was well known Mr. Ellis liked to take advantage of morning hours for his most laborious scientific tasks—especially during a week like this. His white topped four-wheel-drive was parked at the mouth of a gully. On a rise, ten yards away, the futuristic sierra designs tent stood like a majestic igloo. Unlike some tents, the sides to Kyle’s were an opaque lime green.

A scent of stale smoke lingered in the air, but a quick check of the fire ring showed no active smolders. The sunrise had set the hills aglow in soft yellows and oranges.

Lyndy jumped down from the driver’s seat, her hiking boot crunching on the gravel road. She pressed the door shut behind, trying not to slam things. Lyndy listened for a tink-tink, characteristic of someone using a rock hammer, but none could be heard.

The Spitfire ran her fingertips over her legs, feeling how smooth they were. She was wearing her favorite skirt. She dabbed blush on her cheeks in the side mirror, and squirted deodorant under her arms. Then she circled around to the passenger side.

Next Lyndy twisted open the metal latch on the glovebox. She reached for her binoculars. When Kyle’s Bronco was present, but he was not, then a good place to start searching was the cliffs. Oftentimes there were bighorn sheep with lambs up there too. She scoured the mountains for a minute or two, finding nothing living except a raven. The black bird was probably waiting to raid the camp later, should anything edible be left unattended.

“Maybe Kyle is hungover,” thought Lyndy.

She gathered the hot food and strolled to the fire ring area. Lyndy took a seat in one of the canvas beach chairs, kicking her feet onto Kyle’s ice chest. She took a sip of her coffee, enjoying the quiet morning.

A minute later there was a rustling from within the tent. The front zipper lowered halfway, and Kyle stumbled out wearing only a pair of checkered boxer shorts. He rubbed a hand across his face. When he saw Lyndy in the chair he jumped back. “Holy smokes!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t hear you come up the road. If this was a John Wayne movie, I would be the guy with an arrow sticking out of his chest.”

He had blue eyes and curly brown hair.

“I was in stealth mode,” whispered Lyndy. “But I come bearing gifts.”

“Groovy,” said Kyle. “Let me find a shirt that isn’t coated in a quarter inch of Early-Cambrian dust.” He retreated to the tent for a moment.

Seconds later, Kyle emerged clad in a safari shirt, blue jeans and an aussie-style hat. He zipped up the tent flaps, then walked behind out of view. Lyndy could hear him peeing for almost a minute. She rolled her eyes. Afterward, he came rushing to the fire ring, and sat down in the one empty chair. He repositioned the hat so it shaded his face more. Even though it was early morning, he needed it for his white skin. And he always wore long sleeve shirts while working in the field for the same reason.

Lyndy handed Kyle the box with the omelet.

“Wow. This is really thoughtful of you Lyndy. But what’s the special occasion?” he asked, as he took hold of the box. He broke a small fork free of its plastic sleeve, and poked at the eggs.

Lyndy gave Kyle her slyest smile. “I’m a thoughtful person.”

“Right. Makes sense,” said Kyle, taking a sip of coffee. He nodded his chin while gazing suspiciously at her.

[Link to Part-7: La Fierabrosa Part-7]

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-5

Link to part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

You can tell a lot about a person by their choice in headwear. The Spitfire could not recall ever meeting an unkind person who wore a straw hat. All that was missing were plastic flowers and a price tag on a string—just an observation.

Russ offered Lyndy a canteen of water, saying, “you need this more than I do.”

Lyndy accepted it without hesitation. That feeling of cool moisture on her lips and tongue was heavenly, her senses so heightened she could almost smell it.

Should Russ suffer from some communicable disease, transmitted in backwash, Lyndy would have gulped it anyway.

Intense mirages danced across the highway, blurring all lines separating sky and earth. Lyndy ran her fingertips slowly across her forehead, pushing aside the bangs. In addition to thirst, she had developed a dull headache, no doubt an aftereffect of heat stroke.

Lyndy tried to divert her attention. The CJ-7 model was much roomier inside than a CJ-5, with front seats clad in leather. When Russ wasn’t looking, Lyndy took a quick sniff at the perforated seat bolsters to verify authenticity. As they cruised along the unmaintained road, the suspension felt more pliable too.

For fun, The Spitfire tried buckling her modern lap belt; that burgundy Jeep didn’t have passenger restraints—of course not. Russ had already detached the roof, so it was open air like Lyndy’s. And somehow Russ’s hat stayed on like glue, even at fifty miles per hour.

Observing Russ’s face, Lyndy could tell she was curious about her passenger; Lyndy felt the same. A Mexican-American girl wearing high heels, a sleeveless blouse and too-tight blue jeans, 30 miles from any semblance of civilization. Wasn’t this the way certain slasher movies started—an attractive female, pretending to be stranded in the desert.

“Ahem.” Russ cleared her throat. “You know I haven’t met many twenty-year-old classic Jeep fans out here.” Russ shouted to overcome road noise, and tire hum. Lyndy was used to doing this as well. “In fact, you’re the first.”

Lyndy glanced over at Russ, while re-gathering her hair in a ponytail. “Technically that boat anchor—I mean automobile—is my late brother’s. I inherited it.”

Russ kept both hands on the wheel, squinting at hood glare. She grinned ever so slightly, tilting her head to one side, but maintaining vigilance. “So, pardon if I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong, but what exactly do you do out here?”

The question was fair, given the circumstances.

Lyndy had been guarding her purse in her lap. She used her fingers to straighten the decorative fringe, dangling two inches all along the bottom. Then she unsnapped one of the side pockets, fishing out a Martinez Investigations business card—crisp and white—to give to Russ. “I’m a private investigator for a business called Chan’s Bail Bonds.”

Lyndy paused for the obligatory laugh, but none came. She held out the card. “I specialize in finding people who don’t want to be found. You know, folks on the lam, runaway kids, stuff like that.”

Russ turned slowly to face the center, an eyebrow raised. She accepted the little card, gripping it by a corner. She glanced down, then back at the road. On it was the name, a simple illustration of a Joshua Tree—the only art—and then a phone number.

“It’s okay to laugh at me now,” assured Lyndy, cupping her hands across her thighs. She wondered if Russ would be finished speaking, but the lady was undeterred.

“Are you one of those—what do they call it now—bail enforcement agents?”

Lyndy shook her head. “Not me. Mr. Chan is though. And trust me, you do not want to cross him.” That was an understatement.

Lyndy sipped more water from the canteen.

“The gun. Was it also your brother’s?” Russ’s tone had taken a somber turn.

Lyndy confirmed with a nod. One thing was obvious, Russ was far more perceptive than the average tourist; it was unnerving.

“My brother special ordered that thing.”

With a jolt, ungodly scenes of Pinegate Youth Detention Center breached the Spitfire’s consciousness; in her weakened state she couldn’t hold the memories at bay. She felt the cold floors again, rusty nails protruding, the ones that scraped you as counselors and guards dragged you along by your unwashed hair. Lyndy saw the face of warden Mabel Dixon. She felt the sense of hopelessness, the consuming fear, and almost got a chill. Lyndy buried her head in her elbow, shutting her eyes to maintain composure.

“I guess I ought to explain myself. There’s a hardcore biker gang in this county—they’re basically a criminal ring posing as peaceful, freedom loving motorcycle enthusiasts—and those dudes hate my guts. I put too many of their members back behind bars.”

“How many have you put away?” inquired Russ.

“Probably twenty-five by now.”

Lyndy opened her eyes, long enough to watch Russ silently mimic the words, twenty-five. “Also, today I found out I have a new nickname at the jail: La Fierabrosa.”

“What does that mean?”

“The Spitfire, and a part of me likes that one, except I know they’re mocking me.” Lyndy sniffed, slouching lower in the seat, tilting her chin down. “Some of those jerks are white supremacists, and they are the worst. What it means is bad men are coming for me. Could be a matter of days, maybe weeks or months, but they’re coming. If Mr. Chan is around, he’ll try to protect me. But he won’t always be there.” Lyndy lifted her purse an inch, so she could feel the mass. “I just don’t want to find out what it’s like to be dismembered. That’s the reason I’ve been carrying this thing; I hate guns.”

But inside, The Spitfire knew an unspoken truth; her statements were only true in part. She feared nothing, except a repeat of the experiences at Pinegate. Warden Dixon was far more terrifying than any garden variety felon.

“Are you a decent shot? I used to be pretty good with a twenty-two.”

Lyndy shrugged. “With this, it doesn’t even matter.”

Lyndy felt a sudden sting of embarrassment, afraid to even look at Russ. She’d never shared so much, with a person she hardly knew. It seemed an unforced error, something Hector would have chastised her about.

Warning: Prolonged loneliness may result in spilling your guts to total strangers.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to give me a lift now,” said Lyndy. “I can thumb a ride from somebody else.”

After a lengthy silence, Russ shook her head.

“Well this is awkward,” thought Lyndy. She slapped her hands on her knees, asking in a more cheerful tone: “So then, what brings you out here?”

Russ touched one of the shiny buttons on her shirt. “I’m a plain old desert rat, and now, an aspiring historian.” With a faraway look, she twisted her wedding band a half-turn, using her thumb and forefinger. “Let me put it to you like this: However you think your life is going to go, trust me, it won’t go that way.”

“I can attest to that,” thought Lyndy.

“I moved to California because of my husband Glen. At the time he was a test pilot for the Navy, and I was an engine mechanic. I don’t think I ever planned on getting hitched—I hadn’t even dreamed of it—it just happened. Glen also had a passion for camping of all things. So we started coming out to the desert for the peace and quiet.”

“Used to be I spent more time in the Anza-Borrego desert than the Mojave,” continued Russ. “Last couple years though, I’ve been working on a small research project. I’m re-tracing the path of the forgotten Old Government Trail, otherwise known as The Mojave Road. It’s an original covered wagon route across the Mojave, a major route of passage. I’ve been photographing what traces remain of it in black and white. I’m also working on a book to document the history, though I’ve discovered the act of writing is a lot harder than it looks—I suspect I might be better at mechanical things than I am at wordsmithing.” Russ held up her calloused hands, demonstrating a gap of about 20 inches. “Got stacks of manuscripts about this high on my kitchen table.”

Russ’s story sounded legit as they come. Lyndy had heard talk of The Mojave Road once or twice, but knew little about it.

“So, in summary, I understand my life is a bit less exciting than yours. But if you don’t go spreading all my secrets, then I won’t blab about yours.” Russ put a finger across her lips.

“You got yourself a deal,” said Lyndy. She thought about questioning whatever happened to Russ’s husband, but decided it would be impolite. Almost certainly he was no longer among the living.

“And I’ll keep your business card in case I need it,” Russ added.

 

 

Russ proved true to her word. They stopped at an auto parts store on the edge of Barstow, where Lyndy purchased a new 12-volt battery with cash. Then they returned to the CJ-5, still undisturbed at the roadside.

The long ride back was mostly quiet, with Lyndy gazing at the passing scenery, and fidgeting with her keys. Both of them were tired of shouting above the wind, neither having more to say anyway. Working together, they managed to install the new unit within a half hour. Russ toted in her CJ-7 a complete set of craftsman tools; it put Lyndy’s cobbled together one to shame.

After jump-starting her Jeep, making sure everything was normal, more-or-less, Russ shook Lyndy’s hand. Lyndy tried to offer some money, but Russ refused to accept.

“If you ever see me or another poor sap stranded out here, just lend em a hand,” was all she said. Then, tool box in one hand, she ambled back to her yellow Jeep. Moments later it rumbled by, tailed in a whirl of road dust. The horn beeped as it rolled on in the direction of Ludlow.

With Russ safely out of view, Lyndy retrieved the Beretta. Using a flat palm, she shoved the magazine firmly into the grip, until it clicked in place. She pulled the top back to arm it. Then as she slid the pistol under her seat, something occurred to Lyndy. She slipped on her uncomfortable shoes.

With no one on 66, The Spitfire stepped out over the double yellow. She pointed her body east, to Needles, as a dry breeze blew hair across her face. Then, turning one-eighty, pointed herself west. Every so often Lyndy discerned a glint, contrasting against the charcoal hills. It had to be from Russ’s Jeep, ready to crest the pass.

“Curious,” thought Lyndy, folding her arms.

She hadn’t noted which direction Russ was originally traveling. In fact, Lyndy could not recall which way the yellow Jeep had been pointed, whether west toward civilization, or east to the river and Arizona. In her mind’s eye, she could see clearly every feature of that CJ-7, except how it was positioned. And for all the talk of The Government Road, that trail was nowhere near Amboy or Ludlow; she knew for certain.

 

Hours later …

 

If The Vanishing Point diner was considered within Miss Cookson’s territory, then Roy’s Café had long been surrendered to The Spitfire; she often used it as an office for her investigative work, and a place to crash when lacking a will to cook.

Those distant thunderheads of mid-afternoon delivered on none of their promised rain, but succeeded at raising the humidity level. However, with the setting sun, the outside air cooled to a tolerable 90 degrees, and all the creatures of the night began to emerge. It was time for them to rehydrate.

With age came incremental wisdom. The Spitfire desired nothing more than a pitcher full of margarita mix. But with her feet propped on the adjacent stool, Lyndy sipped from a glass of lemonade, watered down with extra ice; it was her third.

She was paging through a Cosmo magazine; it had somehow wormed its way into her post office box. Next to her, a half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich, a basket of fries and a pickle. On the floor, cached alongside the leather purse, those impractical shoes.

Lyndy inverted a glass ketchup bottle, scraping the insides with a butter knife. It made a clinking sound as she attempted to loosen the contents. Devouring fries, two at a time, The Spitfire reached across to massage the arches of her feet. Tomorrow she would have to change up fashion tactics.

Visible through front windows, framed in flaking chrome, Lyndy could see headlights approaching on the highway. Outside the building, a swarm of cicadas were chirping incessantly, and the sound was filtering indoors.

Buster, Roy’s short order cook, took a break from his mopping and gazed out. He had lived through the nineteen forties and fifties, decades when the restaurant was so popular, there were lines out the door to get a table. He had six assistants, all working under him. Ever hopeful, he always seemed on lookout for the next armada of tourists, but most drivers passed on by.

Nearing town, the unknown car was indeed slowing down, and not just because of the speed limit signs. From a distance, it was impossible to distinguish one pair of headlights from any other. Though, as they angled into the Roy’s lot, reflections off the windshield, and the vehicle’s profile, gave it away.

“Aye caramba,” mouthed Lyndy, burying her face in her hands. She’d forgotten about Ted Crawford. His ride was a fifties-era round-bodied pickup truck, green with split windows. It was nicer than the maroon Jeep, only because it had a roof.

Disappointed, Buster resumed his mopping, eventually moving into the kitchen.

Lyndy stirred her glass of lemonade, mostly ice remaining, unsure why she wasn’t in a mood to speak to Ted. Maybe she could slip out the back quick? But with her car parked in front, that wouldn’t make sense. Lyndy hastily checked herself in the makeup case, fluffing her hair so it wasn’t flat against the sides of her head.

Tammy’s intuition was dubious at best. But if Ted asked her out to the river party, Lyndy wasn’t sure what her answer would be. She reached for a clean napkin from the dispenser.

Steel bells clanged as the door creaked open. Then an overzealous air conditioner clicked on, triggering a momentary rush of air.

Lyndy wiped excess ketchup from her fingertips and lips, then touched up her purple lipstick. Seconds later, a dusty Stetson hat flopped on the counter.

“Been lookin around all day,” declared Ted.

Strange how the sound of a person’s voice could soften the heart. Lyndy had missed it. But the tone seemed upset, and his boldness was out of character.

“I called your place six times, no answer,” Ted added.

Lyndy shifted her feet and rotated her body, making room for Ted to sit next to her. He straddled the stool like it was a saddle, gripping the counter edge to steady himself. His breathing was slow, his attentions on her, as he calmly awaited an explanation.

Lyndy let her eyes wander. She could see the work shirt, tight against his firm chest, moisture stains around the collar. He’d rolled both sleeves up above the elbows. Dirt smudges lingered on his forearms, evidence of whatever chore he’d been laboring at earlier in the day; much of his work was with horses, or trucks, or other things that were heavy.

“Did you call Chan’s?” asked Lyndy, stalling.

“I woulda called there. But he always yells at me for botherin him. He says he’s ‘not a Spitfire telephone answering service’. Somethin like that.”

That comment made Lyndy grin. “Look, I just ain’t been home is all,” she replied. “I had about the worst, most unproductive day! Literally got sun-stroke, passed out by the road, and had to be rescued by a total stranger. Fun times.”

“Holy crap. Are you okay now?” asked Ted, concerned.

Lyndy nodded, biting into a pickle. “Uh huh. I’m tough. And I even got my appetite back, so you know I’m recovered.” She smiled, offering her red basket of fries to Ted. He shook his head no.

“Glad you’re better; this heat wave has been killer.”

“Are you sure you don’t want any?” asked Lyndy. “Think of it as me paying you back for all those times I said I didn’t want fries, and then ended up eating half of yours. Remember?”

“I’m not hungry,” said Ted solemnly.

Lyndy had expected some kind of laugh or chuckle.

Ted sniffed, spinning his hat uneasily on the polished counter. “I uh … doubt very much you had a worse day than me.” He brushed some loose grains of sand from the brim.

Lyndy placed a hand atop Ted’s. His fingers were warm. “What do you mean by that?”

[Link to Part-6: La Fierabrosa Part-6]

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-4

[Happy Thanksgiving Everybody–ASC]

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Link to Part-2: La Fierabrosa Part-2

Link to Part-3: La Fierabrosa Part-3

Surprise! The Jeep hadn’t magically repaired itself.

Resting a hand on the shifter knob, The Spitfire discovered it was moist, either from palm sweat or pizza grease accumulation. Somewhere along the line, a previous owner “upgraded” the standard AMC shifter to one styled like an 8-ball. It was made of Bakelite—a synthetic material with a chemical name 36 letters long—and took two quarter-turns to twist all the way off, typically bouncing under the seat out of reach, leaving you with a rusty tetanus stick to shift gears. But hey, it was groovy.

The CJ-5 didn’t come with air conditioning from the factory. AMC engineers assumed you would fold the vinyl top down on a day like this, to soak up the rays. Naturally. But those rascals lived in Michigan, and the top was down, yet somehow things were getting worse.

Meteorologists called it an inversion, a condition when gaining altitude, the temperature actually increased. Such events were routine in LA, rare for the desert. The Spitfire recalled as a child, one sweltering august afternoon, when the tall buildings stood like exotic islands, ringed in a soup of brown haze.

Lyndy massaged her forehead with her fingertips, wiping away excess sweat on her blouse. Traveling the new interstate highway, it was a 45-minute commute from Barstow to the Ludlow exit. This gave Lyndy a lot of time to think and daydream; some days too much.

Tammy Ward had opened a scab by bringing up the subject of the river party, but Lyndy had a plan. Earlier in the season, she happened to meet a geologist named Kyle Ellis. He was a graduate student, doing fieldwork in the east Mojave, and they had been seeing each other for six weeks. Turned out the Ellis family was loaded, and Kyle’s parents owned a big cabin fronting Lake Arrowhead, with a speedboat.

Her and Kyle were close in age, with tons of stuff in common … except right now… none were coming to mind. At least they both appreciated the desert, just in different ways. And surely, Kyle would be willing to accompany her to an obligatory party.

 

Bouncing along in fourth gear, straining for a miserable 50 miles an hour—not even the national limit—Lyndy passed over the Newberry Springs bridge.

Speaking of geologic curiosities, here was one of the more remarkable: a series of mineral ponds, somehow emerging from blowing sand, shimmering in the reflections of noonday sun. Improbable though it seemed, the water table was high enough one could dig a trough 36 inches deep, and it would fill in minutes. Definitely not a place to try and hide a body—not that anyone would do that in the Mojave.

Willows, cottonwoods, and even green riparian plants thrived on both sides of the freeway. White herons fished in the oasis, bobcats hunted, but mostly the ponds were so off-color no one would be foolish enough to drink them.

Over many years, in countless drives, Lyndy Martinez had dreamed of pausing here. Perhaps to dip her bare feet in the cool water, or view the wildlife, take a nap, or even have a picnic lunch. But she was always busy. Too busy to slow down; too busy to rest. One of these days she promised she would stop, and maybe bring along a friend.

 

The Jeep was acting wheezy, as if the carb needed adjusting. With her thumb pressed on the glass dial, Lyndy cleared dust obscuring the temperature gauge. Though some of the contrasting paint had flaked off, Lyndy could see the needle, pointing to 200. Hard to know if it was an accurate reading.

How about a little rock-n-roll to get your mind off work, and lack of funds?

No can do. The Jeep didn’t come with a stereo either. But that made somewhat logical sense; when the top was down you couldn’t hear a damn thing beyond road noise.

“Radio? Who needs music!” echoed Chan. “You should focus on what Melinda employed to do—which is find people who do not pay on their loans!”

There was a surefire way for Lyndy to measure severity of delirium: whenever Chan’s detached voice intruded in her brain.

“Huh. Huh. Huh. And another thing, bounty hunters are supposed to drive jalopies. It goes with the image!”

The Spitfire groaned. “Ugh. But not mine. We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

 

At Ludlow, a ghost town, Lyndy took the exit signed National Old Trails Highway. There were stencils in the roadway marked with the Route-66 shield. Some maps still drew it as a red line, not a blue, and it used to be the only direct route to Needles, receiving a constant flow of Arizona bound cars.

With the I-40 newly open, traffic on this segment evaporated. Unlike Barstow, you couldn’t reclassify this no-man’s-land as a city street. Any service businesses were forced to relocate, or close, making it less convenient for travelers; even schools shut down. Soon the pavement itself began to crumble, each season bumpier than the last, with the desert gradually reclaiming territory.

Of course, Lyndy at one time planned to have a trucker-style CB radio installed in the Jeep, but hadn’t gotten around to it. She was regretting that postponement.

Four miles from Ludlow, the first indications of trouble: the AMC engine sputtering and misfiring. Next, the revs got low, and Lyndy downshifted. Then the chassis lurched, backfiring once, and the unthinkable finale: the motor died.

“What on earth?” whispered Lyndy, testing the ignition.

It made a click, but no go. Within seconds everything became quiet, the flow of air ceasing, as Lyndy coasted to an unscheduled stop on the shoulder.

Without motion, the climate felt as though a great flare had arced off the solar corona, hurtling through space to rain fire on the county.

“I think the sun is trying to kill me,” thought Lyndy.

She glanced at her Certina watch. Still stuck at 9:00.

How long ‘til the vultures were circling?

Lyndy took a panicked breath, exhaling in an uneasy quiver. Odds were decent a stranger would happen along. Hopefully this good Samaritan would come within an hour.

At last, Lyndy undid her watch clasp. Pinching the tiny crown, she counted off forty even turns, and this took effort. To set the time, she squinted up at the ball of fire, shading her eyes to determine its angle. She settled on 1:00; it seemed close enough.

Next Lyndy kicked open the driver’s half-door and slid out. Both heels immediately sunk an inch deep in the soil, causing her to stumble—this was no place for girly shoes. She braced an elbow against the left fender, staggering to the front of the car.

With her cupped fist, Lyndy undid the nearest hood release, then leaned across the top to unclip the other latch. She raised the hood and metal support, a blast of exhaust hitting her square in the face.

It was Hector who had once been saddled with the chore of teaching The Spitfire to drive. Over a half-glass of tequila, he lectured that engines required three main ingredients to run: fuel, air and spark. One of these was missing, but which? Hard to believe it was gas—the whole under hood area smelled like it.

Lyndy hovered a palm over top of the carb. Then she unscrewed the cap to the radiator, making sure her face pointed away, shielded by an elbow and the sleeve of her blouse. But rather than a cartoonish geyser of steam, it hardly bubbled at all.

Lyndy then turned to face the lonely road. She breathed a sigh, unbuttoning the top two buttons on her shirt. “Throw some dirt over me. I’m dead,” she mouthed.

For a place to be stranded, it had a nice view. To the north were the Bristol Mountains, and beyond, the towering Granites. In the sky overhead loomed mature thunderheads, their anvil shapes growing blown out and extended. Somewhere, it had probably drizzled a little, or teased the land with virga.

To the south, across empty flats dotted with creosote and coyote brush, were the Bullion Mountains. These bordered onto a sparse military base. In the center of the valley stood the dark, obsidian-colored rise of Amboy Crater. Other than the road, and some skinny train tracks, there wasn’t much touched by the hand of man.

Then without warning, Lyndy became light-headed, a sense of vertigo overwhelming her. Her vision clouded, and it seemed a foolish thing to allow—this loss of consciousness at a critical time—but there was no stopping it. For the first time in her life, Lyndy Martinez fainted, Victorian style.

 

Minutes later …

The Spitfire could feel ice water dripping down her forehead and cheeks—sensory contrast being what startled her—as the world came into focus. Her hearing gradually returned, plus the other senses, and she knew she could not be alone.

A stranger must have awoken her by splashing cold water.

With bare hands, Lyndy pushed herself to a kneeling position. The larger grains of sand felt like crushed glass; they were stuck to her cheek as well, and she rubbed them off. Her face remained in the shadow of the Jeep. She thought of the Beretta, stowed out of view beneath the seat, only feet away. She wished she’d grabbed it before, but hadn’t planned on succumbing to heat in the meantime.

Lyndy hastily brushed her palms on her thighs, to clean excess dust. Then she pushed her hair back, away from her eyes.

The stranger loomed above her, wearing a long sleeve denim shirt and farmer-style straw hat. But it was the skin on their face truly distinguishing them from an everyday tourist. It had attained a leather-like appearance, with many deep creases. Lyndy associated the look with older cowboys. This much was clear, it marked someone who spent decades in the west, and never used sunscreen.

Cathy Cookson once said, “If Barstow was to have a beauty contest, there wouldn’t be no winners or runners up.”

“You thinkin bout that gun, are ya?” The voice was feminine.

“Didn’t see that one coming,” thought Lyndy.

The mystery woman held out the 9-mm cartridge, sleek and black, smelling of oil.

Lyndy recognized the magazine she’d loaded by hand, two days prior, about the size and shape of a Pez candy dispenser; it held 10 rounds.

“Already took them bullets out,” said the lady. Her hazel eyes, piercing, ageless, were difficult to read.

The Spitfire sniffed. It was a rare condition to feel vulnerable and lost for words.

“I saw there was one primed in the chamber; got that too. It was scary as hell.”

Lyndy let go of the gun idea. It was a doorstop now.

Wiping a forearm across her face, Lyndy took her first full breath. “It’s cause it’s a prototype,” she whispered. “Those guys weren’t concerned how you were going to disarm it.”

The woman dipped a hand in her front pocket. She unfolded reading glasses, slipping them over her nose. They were those awful wood-shop instructor kind, with the black frames and white tape over the nose bridge.

“Glad you’re alright,” the woman said. “I was about ready to poke ya’ in the shoulder next. Thought maybe you were having a ‘bad trip’ ya know.” Then she grinned, the lines of crows feet deepening around her eyes.

There was a trite phrase describing this situation, yet oftentimes true: not all heroes wear capes. Lyndy was starting to relax.

Tilting her chin, Lyndy realized her blouse was still open at the top, exposing the upper part of her black bra. She quickly buttoned up. “I’ll survive. I think the weather, and a lack of sleep is catching up with me.”

“Lemme help you up,” said the lady, offering a calloused hand. A dulled wedding band adorned her index finger.

“Thanks, but I got this,” said Lyndy, using the bumper to stand. She scraped off gravel from the road, clinging to the back of her jeans. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Sorry. The name’s Julia Russell. People call me Russ.”

Lyndy extended her right hand. “Lyndy Martinez. Thanks a million for stopping.”

The woman cleaned some engine grease off her hands, before shaking Lyndy’s.

“I hope ya’ll don’t mind, I took a quick peek under your hood. You’ve got a nice, rust-free CJ here, but the bad news is you need a battery. Your old one is toast—done in by the heat wave. Alternator might be going too. Did you notice the voltmeter dropping by chance? I’m sure the battery was losing charge.” Russ grinned again. “Ya know, I’ve always had a place in my heart for the old rattletrap Jeeps. My mama told me they were cars for boys, but I didn’t listen to that nonsense. Got a brand-new CJ-7 right now.” She pointed her thumb to a taxi-cab-yellow Jeep parked on the other side of the road, twenty yards distant. “I can drive you back into town, and we can pick up a new battery if you want. I’ve got tools too. I changed my last alternator in a Dairy Queen parking lot.”

Lyndy shook her head at first. “I don’t want to inconvenience you. You probably have somewhere you gotta be.”

“Listen, I’m in no hurry.” Russ cleared her throat, looking down at her dusty cowgirl boots. “Say, am I talkin too much? I don’t get much interaction with people these days.”

“No. I would love a ride,” replied Lyndy.

She certainly wasn’t going to turn down this kind of help.

To be continued …

[Link to Part-5: La Fierabrosa Part-5]

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-3

Link to part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Back on main street, her sunglasses on, and a tepid wind was blowing through Lyndy’s dark hair. Motoring past the Moose Lodge—number whatever—near the yellow street lamp which had been shot out three times, Lyndy could feel beads of sweat coalescing. Periodically they were rolling down her spine like a toboggan run, headed for a gathering on her behind.

Did other humans have these problems, or was it only the spitfire?

Behind her seat resided a yellow igloo cooler containing ice water. She wanted to dunk her head, even if it meant ruining her makeup, but it was too early in the day.

One by one, Lyndy flexed the fingers on her left hand, a bit of purple nail polish flaking off in the process. It had been eleven days without a high temp below a hundred degrees. It felt as if this heat wave would never cease—nor did the paper seem to think so.

Now for one of those awful seventh grade math problems: Deputy Keynes—notorious marriage deal breaker—maintains San Bernardino County is just over 20,000 square miles. So how hard can it be to find a man? If a private investigator spends exactly one minute searching every acre, that would take …. should have paid more attention in math. But if there’s 500,000 minutes in a year, and you never need to sleep or eat, then it would require approximately 24 years to search the county. And the Lovelace Corporation had given her a whopping 40 hours.

Damn.

Lyndy gripped tighter on the steering wheel. Funny thing, most lay people couldn’t explain the difference between burglary and robbery—it blurs together. Except there is a key distinction, and it has to do with the mindset of an individual committing the crime; one involves the threat of violence. So, question was, would this Evan guy be armed? Hector died of a gunshot wound to the back; that was a sobering thought.

There were other problems weighing on her mind too. The Jeep had been hard to get started, and she had to feather the gas pedal. Which was akin to force-feeding it. With her bank account set on nada, any fixes were up to the Spitfire, and her limited knowledge of carburetor tuning.

Up ahead, a wooden sandwich board at the Aero station advertised 65 cent-a-gallon gas. Lyndy raised her glasses. Either her vision was faltering, or it seemed a darn fair price for unleaded. Lyndy glanced at the fuel needle; the speedometer was a total wag, but the fuel gauge could be trusted—sometimes—and hovered at one third remaining.

Though exposed to full sun, Lyndy angled into the far lane of pumps. Her reasoning was two-fold. The inner lane under the awning had been almost fully taken up by an F-series 1-ton truck, hitched to a rickety old trailer. But the primary reason she preferred the more distant row from the kiosk, was to minimize the time the grungy bearded attendant could stare at her chest.

Lyndy shoved the gear lever in neutral and shut off the motor, crossing her fingers it would start one more time. She retrieved a spare rag from behind the seat, wrapping it loosely around the fuel cap, and twisted it off. Then she placed the pump nozzle in the tank, and used the same rag to squeeze on the trigger.

A crafty sign in the station window declared: “Dinosaur Bones Sold Here!” Every now and then, some gullible tourist would stumble inside, asking eagerly about the bones and where he could get a look at them. Then the grungy guy, snot stains adorning his AC/DC t-shirt, would get a belly laugh for the day. It didn’t take much out here.

As the tank slowly filled, Lyndy caught a glimpse of herself in the driver’s mirror. Her face looked drained, cheeks pale, with the edges of her mouth curling down. Hiking up her jeans, she practiced smiling; it took more effort than expected.

“Hey there Lyndy Martinez!”

Somebody was shouting her name from a distance. Lyndy thought she recognized the voice. Instinctively, she turned toward an A-frame taco stand, located a few doors down from the station. She confirmed it was Tammy Ward.

Happy to see a friend, Lyndy responded in kind with a hand-cupping wave. Briefly checking her surroundings, she made sure no one was waiting in line. Then Lyndy finished topping off the tank and reset the nozzle.

Hiking across the strip-mall parking lot, the old asphalt felt hotter than any sand dune in the Gobi Desert.

The little taco stand might have been called Sancho’s, but its manager was white as a Minnesota winter. A stout woman in her thirties, with curly brown hair, Tammy was one of those unfortunates who didn’t tan, they simply burned. Thus, most any time of year she remained steadfastly under her protective awning, like a badger peeking out from a desert burrow.

Lyndy fanned herself with her hands, grinning to Tammy as she walked.

Tammy wiped her fists on her white apron, the front permanently streaked with dried blood—obviously from handling raw beef.

When it came to Barstow citizenry, Tammy was an excellent person to know. Not only did her perch serve as an ideal spot for observing all the goings-on in town, she had kinfolk distributed throughout the county, and Lyndy had used this to her advantage before.

“Hace calor,” Lyndy mouthed. She shielded her eyes with one hand, resting the other on her hip.

Over on Route-66, an Easy-Rider looking dude on a chopper motorcycle slowed and beeped his horn. He followed it up with an infuriating “wert-whirl” whistle.

Tammy scowled, leaning halfway across the counter on her stomach. “These males around here!” she complained, shaking a fist in the direction of the road. “Ain’t no such thing as manners!”  On occasion, Tammy was known to hold kitchen knives in the air; her defensive posture explained why Sancho’s hadn’t been robbed in its 10-year history.

Lyndy approached the wide counter, placing both palms flat on the surface. There was plenty of room and she scooted up onto it, so she could be high and level with Tammy. Twisting around, Lyndy crossed one leg over the other and faced the road.

From a stack of wax-paper cups, Tammy selected the first one, pushing it against the cold soda dispenser. “Say, are those beauties new?” she inquired, pointing to Lyndy’s feet.

Lyndy nodded, kicking out her knees to show off the shoes. “Oh yes, and surprisingly comfortable too.”

“Anyone else notice?”

“Oddly, Mr. Chan did. And this from a man who thinks Hawaiian shirts are business attire.”

Tammy passed the fizzing cup of Tab to Lyndy, who accepted it gratefully.

Taking an initial sip, Lyndy noticed the avocado-green GSX, aligned parallel to the stand. It was a four-barrel V-8, still firing on leaded fuel.

“Hey, how is your Buick running?” asked Lyndy.

“Smoked two showroom Camaros at the drag strip on Sunday.”

“Good to know,” said Lyndy, turning to offer a wink. She also happened to glance over at the gas station. The Jeep was still there, waiting patiently, though the attendant seemed to be searching for what happened to the Latina girl.

With any luck it might get towed away.

“Tammy, sorry to change topics, but you know anybody that dances at Cadillac’s night club?”

“Let me think. Is this for a case?”

Lyndy nodded.

Tammy rested her elbows on the counter in a pensive manner. A few seconds later her head popped up. “I got a cousin Lorraine, used to be a cocktail waitress there,” she offered. “It’s the best I can do.”

“No, that’s super helpful,” replied Lyndy.

“I’ll give you her address. She ain’t got a phone.”

Score. Even a small lead was better than none.

Tammy scribbled down the address on a discarded receipt, in blue ink. “Oh hey, almost forgot why I called you over. Bet you’ll never guess who stopped by looking for you?”

“Burt Reynolds,” said Lyndy, with a shrug.

“Nope, it was the quiet cowboy.”

“Cowboy? You mean Ted Crawford?” She turned around in shock, locking eyes with Tammy.

“I thought you two were finished.”

“So did I,” replied Lyndy.

“Maybe he wants to ask you out to the river party?”

Lyndy winced internally, hoping nothing showed; it was the first time someone had mentioned the party on Saturday. “Oh please! Ted’s not interested in that. We went on three dates and then, nothing. I make up all these elaborate excuses just so I have to visit the JBR ranch, but he was always busy. Either he’s the shyest boy in the desert, or I ain’t his type.”

“Not gonna lie, that is one fine-looking young man.” Tammy stared down at the wood counter. Using her fingernail, she scratched at some dried jack cheese to dislodge it. “So, are you going to that party?”

“I don’t even know yet,” lamented Lyndy, resting her head against the window frame to stay under the shade of the roof. She closed her eyes a moment, remembering the clock was ticking on this case—even if her watch was stopped.

“Now I could be wrong, but you don’t sound very excited, Lyn.”

Lyndy exhaled a sigh, knowing Tammy was unaware of her special day. She poked at her left thigh. “It’s hard to explain, but parties stress me out.”

“Used to do the same to me. You think the dingbat waitress will be there?”

Lyndy folded her arms. Tammy could only mean one individual: Miss Cookson was by far the most popular waitress at the truck stop honky-tonk—practically an institution—and behaved as if she owned the town as well. “And miss a prime opportunity to show off in a bathing suit? Trust me, Cathy will be there.”

“So, what are you gonna wear?”

Lyndy chuckled at the presumptiveness of Tammy. “Haven’t said I’m going yet,” she corrected. “But you know, if I do, probably cutoff shorts and a western shirt.” Emphasizing a curvy shape with her hands, “It’s best to look like the girl next door at those things, not Ginger Grant.”

“Or a certain blonde waitress,” added Tammy.

“Right,” said Lyndy. “Plus, sorry to admit, Lyndy isn’t so young anymore.”

“No way. You’re still young,” argued Tammy.

“What age is it you have to buy your own drinks in a bar? Cause I’m bumping up against it.”

Tammy laughed.

Lyndy stared at the address on the receipt, attempting to visualize a location. It was somewhere in Phelan, on one of many graded dirt roads.

“Oh honey, that’s like 38,” assured Tammy, patting Lyndy on the back.

“Comforting,” said Lyndy sardonically. Then she jumped to the ground.

Even the taco lady has a fast car.

[Link to Part-4: La Fierabrosa, Part-4

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-2

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

[Author’s Note: This one is a re-vamp of the very first Lyndy Martinez story, originally titled “Desert Rat”, but now enhanced to bring it up to modern standards. Stay tuned.]

Lyndy dipped a hand in her leather purse, retrieving a tin of lotion. She uncapped the lid, then squirted a big glob atop her fist. She began rubbing it in with her palm, using rapid circular motions.

“Oh god, not your smelly hand lotion again,” lamented Chan, pinching his nose. “Can’t you take it outside? You gonna make it stink like underwear department at Bullock’s. I should light cigar to counteract.”

Lyndy jumped up excitedly. She approached Chan with arms spread, as if threatening to squeeze his cheeks. In response, Chan leaned way back, nearly tipping out of his swivel chair. Then Lyndy abruptly changed direction, veering to the south wall behind the desk.

“You’ve stated your opinion, albeit rudely. But the fact is I do need to earn my keep,” said Lyndy. She plucked the sunglasses from her hair, sticking the plastic tip in her mouth. Pointing to the wall of shame she inquired, “How much do I get if I go after one of these wayward souls?”

“Nothin at all until you find one.”

Lyndy exhaled loudly, mimicking an upset teenager. “But I can make nothing, doing nothing,” she complained. “What’s the use in that?”

“Exactly,” replied Chan.

Lyndy nudged her chair closer to the wall, at the same time spinning it around one-eighty. She took a seat backwards, arms resting flat across the top. She continued chewing the end of her glasses.

“Also woman, you are looking way too thin. After Hector pass away, it like you don’t wanna eat no more. You used to be healthier.”

What did Chan know about healthy eating? Lyndy ignored him.

The large corkboard featured over two dozen polaroid shots of individuals who, over the years, had failed to make court appearances. In the bottom white portion of the photo, names and aliases had been scrawled in block letters, using a sharpie pen; the Spitfire remembered printing a few of these herself. Nearby, a grease marker hung by a white string, and across a few of the faces a red X had been slashed, so prominent you could see it clear to the door.

If the person paid up, went to jail, or otherwise came clean, they were graciously taken down from the wall of shame. Short of that outcome, bond outstanding, they stayed up indefinitely, and some of those pictures were getting yellow with age.

Lyndy rested her chin on her hands, placing her nose 12 inches from the board.

Chan rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Oh, come on Melinda, you know you never gonna find any of those scumbags.” Gesturing with his coffee mug he added, “trail’s gone cold.”

“Hush up,” said Lyndy. “I’m tryin’ to concentrate. I need money fast.”

Chan went back to drinking coffee and watching Have Gun, Will Travel.

By now, The Spitfire had memorized all the faces, often having deja-vu moments in public—or worse, in the midst of a date—where she was certain she recognized one. Of course, most of those leads dissolved like mirages on Route-66.

“I mean, think of it this way,” added Lyndy. “You ever hear of a bad-ass detective with an old, slow, underperforming automobile?”  Lyndy scratched at an itch on the side of her head, above her ear. “Well, one guy. But I mean, unless you’re Columbo, it’s just not cool.”

“Huh. Huh. Huh,” was Chan’s only response.

Lyndy rose from the chair again. She deliberately angled her body to the side, extending her arms in the manner of a game show beauty queen revealing a prize. She was trying to get Chan’s attention. With her thumb and index fingers, she created a box around a middle-aged man in a pinstripe business suit. He had a sad look on his face in the photo.

“Hey, what about this jerk?”

Without bothering to look up, Chan shook his head. He somehow knew the one Lyndy had been outlining. “Poor Jack Webster. Mr. tax evasion service … I mean accountant. Been meaning to take that one down. This time he crossed the line; if we were in the south he be outdoors busting big rocks with a hammer and chisel.”

Lyndy tilted her head to one side, asking for an explanation.

Chan dabbed coffee dribble from his chin with a white paper napkin. “Story amusing in a bad way. Apparently, he pay visit to the ex-wife, unannounced. And just so happen she was having men building pool in backyard for her and a sleazy new boyfriend. Mr. Webster get enraged, bonk them both on head with sticks of rebar, toss them in the empty hole. Then he ramp up the gunnite machine full blast and bury them. It was a clever touch if you ask me, but somehow they catch him anyway.”

Lyndy’s shoulders sank.

“By the way, how much did those new shoes cost?”

It was unusual for Chan to notice a small fashion detail. Glancing down at her feet, Lyndy replied, “You really don’t wanna know.”

“Listen, if you need a case, I got somebody fresh over here,” said Chan, casually reaching across to switch off his TV. “Likelihood of success better.”

Inside, Lyndy commenced a private celebration, golden dollar signs falling from the sky. “You’ve got my attention,” she said.

“I already discuss prospect with Richard Lovelace. He agree to pay your outrageous hourly rate—but you only get 40—one week. Total.”

“That’s enough.”

Chan snorted. “Glad you are confident.” He yanked at the wooden knob on the top drawer, having to shake it a bit to allow it to slide more freely.

Lyndy scooted closer to the desk.

Licking his finger and thumb, Chan then flicked a color print across the top surface. Lyndy lifted the mugshot like a playing card, using her fingernails to grip the edge. The individual was a younger, fit looking fellow with blue eyes and stringy hair. To Lyndy he was cute, in a bad boy fugitive from the law sorta way.

“This one’s a real winner. Goes by name Evan P. Stone; P stand for Percy. His occupation—and that’s being generous—is listed as singer in rock-n-roll band; plays small casinos an stuff.”

Chan began rummaging through stacks of loose paper from the drawer, composed of canceled checks and receipts for god knows what.

“Start out simply enough—as most tailspins do,” continued Chan. “Burglary, petty theft, but what really get him in hot water was a restraining order. Accused of criminal threats to a Cadillac’s dancer.”

Lyndy cringed, recognizing the name of a seedy nightclub frequented by trashy men. Evan’s cuteness points were wiped out instantly.

“And then he violate the order. Course, he assure me she trying to extort money from him. He innocent of all charges, just need time to lawyer up.”

Lyndy took another look at the photo, this time committing the face to memory. Then she placed the picture back on Chan’s desk.

“He promise he remain in town. But now I call telephone many times. Not hear nothing. I call his landlady; she not seen him. I even write letter: Dear crap-for-brains—I mean Mr. Evan Stone—where are you buddy? This town misses you. Come home soon okay. Love Chan. X-O-X-O.” Chan tilted his head back and laughed his trademark laugh.

Lyndy snapped open a makeup case. While staring at her reflection, Lyndy applied her favorite purple lipstick, covering over the places that had rubbed off since the last cigarette break.

How many low-level fugitives did it take to buy a flashy new hot rod? Probably a lot, and it was dangerous work. Might not live to see the day.

In addition, Mr. Stone appeared young and healthy, possessing a talent which could earn him a living off-grid. Heck, it wasn’t so easy getting gigs at casinos—even they had standards.

Lyndy slouched, sinking further into the uncomfortable chair. She breathed in heavily, blowing hair out of her face. She wanted another smoke—the cravings were maddening—but was trying to stay strong.

“Okay, hit me with the punchline. What makes you and Richard so sure this guy isn’t in Puerta Vallarta, drowning in margaritas?”

Lyndy straightened her back, leaning forward to place her palms on the mahogany desk. “And who would be stupid enough to threaten a dancer at Cadillac’s? Don’t those places have better security than most banks?”

Chan looked square at Lyndy, narrowing his vision. He rarely did this, and only when The Spitfire mentioned something he was not anticipating.

“You ever been there?” tested Lyndy.

Lyndy had never been to it herself.

“No,” admitted Chan. “But listen, he got a child in San Berdoo. She in kindergarten or first grade. Live with ex-wife, but ex don’t talk to us neither. Kid’s name is Suzie, or Suzanne, or something, but I don’t know wife name at all.”

“Alrighty.”

Chan placed his finger on a slip of paper. “Aha. I found you the address. You could see if he been staying around here. My guess is no, but it all we got.”

Lyndy rubbed her fingers over her upper chest, and held out her glistening hand in the light. Then she shook the tails of her blouse. “Sorry man, it’s way too blistering in here. I gotta get movin.”

Chan nodded in understanding. Although the metal shades were drawn, he gazed off in the direction of the street. Then he cleared his throat. “Look, sometimes innocent men go back to jail because they are jackasses.”

“I know that,” said Lyndy. Turning to leave, she grabbed her purse and slung it over one shoulder.

“Hey, sorry I yell at you about doughnuts.”

“It’s okay. I’m a big girl,” said Lyndy, briefly sticking out her tongue. She was about to head for the door, hoping the Jeep would actually start.

Why was he acting so weird, apologizing for basically nothing? Did he remember her birthday?

“Oh, one more thing Melinda.” Chan’s tone became serious. It meant bad news. Lyndy turned back.

“I talk to warden the other day when I up at county. He say the inmates got a new nickname for you. You ever hear of it?”

Lyndy shook her head.

“La Fierabrosa.”

To Be Continued …

[Link to Part-3: La Fierabrosa Part-3]

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-1

[Author’s Note: This one is a re-vamp of the very first Lyndy Martinez story, originally titled “Desert Rat”, but now enhanced to bring it up to modern standards. Stay tuned.]

The Shasta c-store was located at the intersection of Barstow Road and Main—literally fronting world-famous Route-66. Of course, much time had passed since those bustling glory days, and fortunes in this part of town had been on a steady decline. Evidence of decay was all around.

Her ex-fiancé, Deputy Keynes, called this joint a Stab-N-Grab, but to Lyndy Martinez it would forever be known as the place where she one time bought a pregnancy test, and thankfully it was negative. Another useful fact: the Shasta carried a good selection of diet sodas in their refrigerators—if you were into that.

With one fancy high-heel sandal resting on the bumper, one on the ground, The Spitfire reclined against the grill of the burgundy Jeep. Her tight blue jeans were insulating her butt from hot metal. She was “busy” smoking a Newport and sipping from an icy-cold bottle of Tab cola; managing two vices at once. Her view faced Main.

Someone had planted a fine row of aspens on the near side of the street. They were clearly watering them, as green summer leaves rustled in a light breeze. The sky above was azure blue, showing a few trace contrails, but not a single cloud. It might have been deemed a perfect day, if it weren’t so damn warm. Using the frilly sleeve of her blouse, Lyndy mopped enormous sweat beads from her forehead and upper chest.

Lyndy glanced at her watch. She probably should have been at work an hour ago, but her birthday was today, and The Spitfire had turned 26. She was determined not to tell anyone, and the only person who would remember was deceased.

Hector had said just one thing regarding the day of her birth, that Lyndy’s parents came very close to naming her Angela. Talk about a mismatch. How they progressed from there to Melinda-Evangeline was anyone’s guess. Of course, the Martinez’s wouldn’t be winning any good parenting awards. No one had heard from them in 25 years. At least her mother had given her height genes; five-eight was respectable.

Lyndy set down the pop bottle, intending to adjust her ponytail. She gathered up some of her loose bangs, all having gone astray on the drive over, and shoved them under the hair tie. This effect was part of a growing list of reasons to hate the open-top Jeep. Another one: she was sick of breathing diesel fumes whenever a truck passed by.

The Spitfire’s gaze shifted to the opposite side of Main, where she spotted an older woman shuffling along the sidewalk. In California any pedestrian was suspicious, but Lyndy had seen that person around town before. She lowered her sunglasses for a better look.

The lady had a peculiar stiff-hip walk, and as usual, stayed cloaked in a knitted brown sweater extending to her knees. A shawl atop her head covered everything but the area around her eyes, making her appear from afar like an ewok.

“How on earth could one tolerate a wool sweater on a day like today?” wondered Lyndy, with a frown of disbelief. Then again, Lyndy had seen pictures of women wearing black burqas in the desert; it was possible.

The sweater lady made a point of giving Lyndy a dirty look every time she saw her, and this day was no exception. As she waited to cross the street she turned to face Lyndy. She stared with unblinking serpent-like eyes.

If someone was going to mad-dog Lyndy, she was happy to return the favor. She exhaled a giant ring of smoke, letting it swirl like a haze, signifying her unwillingness to back down … and possibly a future of reduced lung capacity. Lyndy continued glaring back the entire time.

Funny, but The Spitfire had never exchanged words with the old woman; she didn’t know what the issue was. It could be as simple as hatred for youth or old-fashioned prejudice against Latinos. Or perhaps the sweater lady had heard stories. It was no secret where Lyndy Martinez worked. Anyone would have recognized the burgundy Jeep parked there.

At last the signal changed. The woman shuffled off northbound, soon passing in front of the donut shop. Lyndy crushed out her cigarette, then chugged the remainder of her soda. She prepared to climb in the driver’s seat, taking one last glance over her shoulder. But before twisting the key, Lyndy reached under the passenger side for her leather purse. She squeezed the outside, feeling for the outline of the steel Beretta. It was there, somehow a comfort.

Lyndy let the Jeep idle. “Hace calor,” she mouthed, pinching the front of her blouse to move some air. Then she sputtered out into the flow of traffic on Main, proceeding the few short blocks to Chan’s. When she was a teenager, Barstow felt a whole lot busier. That was in the years before Interstate-15 was complete. But still, given the time of day, traffic on the mother road was anything but light.

 

Moments later…

 

In life, there aren’t many numbers you’ll want to have memorized. Your social security number is one. The pin to your ATM card, assuming you have a checking account. But when you hit rock bottom—a new set of jewelry dangling on your wrists—you could do worse than having the number to Chan’s Bail Bonds. In Lyndy’s experience, he answered the phone nearly any hour day or night, and always in the same impatient tone.

Lyndy parked parallel at the rear of the one-story building, aiming for an area where it was crushed gravel; Chan was too cheap to have it all paved. She grabbed her purse, leaving the keys simply dangling from the steering column. The CJ-5 was in such poor condition now, Lyndy figured she couldn’t give it away. Plus, how stupid would you have to be to steal a car from behind a bounty-hunter’s office?

The back door was propped open with a broom stick, and Lyndy slipped through without disturbing it. However once inside, she stopped abruptly.

He stood shoeless in front of the mahogany desk, but otherwise dressed in his preferred outfit: a red Hawaiian shirt and brown khaki pants. With arms folded, he looked every bit his six-foot-two frame. Amidst the shrill of an oil-less ceiling fan, and his staticky black and white television—always on and showing westerns—he somehow heard her pull up.

“Howdy,” said Lyndy.

Chan didn’t offer a customary greeting, instead looking over to the wall clock, then back at The Spitfire. He sighed loudly, scratching his backside, then reaching down for his coffee mug.

“Jeez. What’s-a-matter with you today?” said Lyndy innocently.

“Where are the doughnuts, woman?”

Lyndy snapped her finger and thumb together. “Oh shoot! I knew I was forgetting something.”

Chan raised his arms to the ceiling in aggravation. “For Christ sake Melinda. We talk on phone last night, and I remind you.” Chan shook his head. “You have only one honest chore around here, and you can’t accomplish it.”

Lyndy pointed to the door. “I can go back out,” she offered.

“No. no. Forget it now!” Grumpy and dejected, Chan flopped into his swivel office chair. It was so worn, it had stuffing bulging from each crack in the cushion, like a guy with a beer belly wearing a too-tight shirt.

“Well, sorry the world is coming to an end,” whispered Lyndy meekly.

Of course, asking the boss for a raise required a delicate touch—some sugar coating if you will—but now things were starting off on the wrong note. It was like explaining your career aspirations to a high school guidance counselor, while knowing your GPA was equivalent to the price of gas.

Maybe she should postpone the discussion? Nah.

Lyndy lassoed her purse around the corner of a customer chair. She took a seat, elbows on her knees, pressing her fingertips together in a pose of thoughtful contemplation.

She started off by taking a deep soothing breath, her shoulders slowly rising and falling. While across the desk, Chan was already frowning in anticipation, and she hadn’t even opened her mouth to speak.

“So…uh….”, Lyndy counted to five using the fingers on her right hand. “By my calculations, I need five-thousand to purchase a new vehicle …  because … well … the Jeep is officially a piece-a-shit.”

Lyndy had once seen this man punch his bare fist through a motel room door, twist the handle from the inside, and unlock it. The only other place that happened was in Kung Fu movies.

The expression on Chan’s face steadily shifted from irritation to amusement. “Huh. Huh. Huh.” It was his customary laugh. “Okay Melinda, I go get the Lovelace Company check book.” He pretended to elegantly sign the front of a bond company check with an imaginary fountain pen. “Or would you like that in cash?” Chan pointed to his 1940s safe in the corner.

To be continued …

Link to Part-2: La Fierabrosa Part-2

Link to Part-3: La Fierabrosa Part-3

Link to Part-4: La Fierabrosa, Part-4

Link to Part-5: La Fierabrosa Part-5

Link to Part-6: La Fierabrosa Part-6

Link to Part-7: La Fierabrosa Part-7

Link to Part-8: La Fierabrosa Part-8

Link to Part-9: La Fierabrosa Part-9