Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-5
Lyndy Life Observation: Col Rickman once claimed any marriage lasting fewer than 6 weeks shouldn’t officially count. Thus, by his math he was only married two times in his life, not 3. His short-lived marriage to a showgirl in Vegas was a non-starter.
Watching her daughter sleep soundly in her crib, Lyndy smiled to herself and sighed. Putting this child to bed hadn’t always been so trouble free. Gently, she snugged Maribel’s knitted blanket higher onto her chest, swaddling her arms without waking the precious baby. Through an inch crack in the window, Lyndy could hear a serenade of crickets—it seemed to help with the sleep issue. Before leaving the nursery, she spun the colorful mobile of bears, foxes and elk which hung over her daughter’s crib and silently observed it twirling.
Outside the glassy waters of the lake reflected a tranquil sliver of moonlight. The hills surrounding glowed with tiny amber lights, dream-like, from the hundreds of cabins tucked in the dense pine woods. Up here it certainly didn’t feel like Los Angeles was a mere two-hour drive away. On nights like these it reminded her of a holy city, say in Tibet.
The red LED clock on her nightstand read 10:07. Time to be moving.
Lyndy tip-toed to the hallway, then down two doors to the laundry room. She needed to cycle a load without disturbing Kyle or waking Mari. Luckily the newer models had a soft-chime feature, so when a load was finished it didn’t buzz like a fire drill bell.
Lyndy flipped the switch, adjusting a small knob which kept the lights on the dimmest setting. After transferring a dozen or so wet towels to the dryer unit, she widened her arms to grasp a load of Kyle’s plaid work shirts.
Attempting to be absolutely silent, while gathering up as many of the shirts as possible always meant dropping one. It landed on the linoleum floor, which was an off-white shade. Bending at the hips, Lyndy stretched to pick it up, causing her to notice something subtle yet peculiar. She might not have spotted this mystery substance if she hadn’t been anxious.
Lyndy frowned, then stepped over to the light switch to set the dial higher. This made the lighting more intense, confirming what she was seeing. It was a shimmer, from a dusting of glitter smeared across the shirt collar.
“What in the world?”
Pinching the collar and bringing it closer to her eyes for a better look, she confirmed the substance was glitter—the same flakes of color used in feminine makeup. Showgirl type glitter; Rochelle Bishop kept several containers of this at her stand, spraying it on prior to her act. Of course, Lyndy didn’t wear glitter. Nor did she imagine Kyle would be hanging around with her old pal Miss Bishop—too specific. She sniffed, thinking of what to do. Then she remembered there were envelopes in Kyle’s home office. Sliding open the desk door, she picked out the smallest size to save just a bit of the evidence. Once she’d captured the metallic flakes, she went back to finish loading the washer.
45 minutes later …
Lyndy Life Observation: Consider this, in the early 1990s Sears Tire Center advertised a sale on tires and I bought a complete set of 4 for $48, with installation. That works out to $12 a tire! And they were decent quality tires.
Jackie agreed to meet up at a 24-hour Gas-N-Go truck stop in Banning.
Sipping bad coffee from a paper cup, Lyndy paged through a well-worn San Bernardino County Thomas guide—something she did often when working at Chan’s.
Meantime Jackie pinched a silver crucifix which hung from her neck, bowing her head to pray. Compared to their previous encounters, Jackie was much quieter. Lyndy chalked this behavior up to nerves.
Finishing her prayers, Jackie looked away, gazing out the window to the busy interstate. Dark sunglasses shaded her eyes, even in the night hour. Her curtain-bangs hid the rest. A purse rested in her lap. It was hard to envision anyone engaging in such a spiritual activity to be concealing false motives. Still, Lyndy had her reservations.
Their mission tonight ought to be straightforward—simply locating a business called “Godzilla Towing” and scouting the premises. They were the ones who flat-towed Sabina’s VW out of the national park campground. It would be a pricey job, not to mention the storage fees. Not only was the name of the business menacing, but the fact police detectives couldn’t get in to see the vehicle had her worried.
Where was AAA when you needed them?
Finding their charming yellow pages ad was trivial, because it featured a cartoon of Godzilla pulling a Jeep tied to his tail. Their trucks were dinosaur green, emblazoned with the same Godzilla cartoon. The address was in 29 Palms, a smallish settlement on Highway 62, smack dab in the middle of the Mojave. The place could rival Amboy for high temps.
No one operating a legit business would base out of there. They’d picked it on purpose; to be hard to reach. A few of the high desert impound lots had garnered a reputation for being black holes, where getting a car out became damn near impossible. The mob loved these. Lyndy memorized the cross street, but she had a suspicion it wouldn’t be hard to find.
Sufficiently caffeinated, Lyndy and Jackie burst into the night air, confidently resolved to face gravel backroads, the darkness or whatever came at them. Normal folks were settling into their beds by now. Only nocturnal creatures were on the prowl. Jackie locked her car while Lyndy dabbed on lipstick, using the reflection in the truck stop windows as her mirror. Then she ducked into the driver’s seat. With a yank of the gear shifter and stomp of the gas pedal, they accelerated onto I-10, speeding along with the overnight truckers. Lyndy kept the radio low. Good stations faded in and out with fluctuations of the atmosphere.
Above the hills, bright stars filled the sky.
It took some arm twisting to convince Jackie the sixties Ford would be a smarter choice for their reconnaissance, versus the modern Porsche. Like any girl, Lyndy was a fan of sexy black Porsches, but the benefits of a less conspicuous vehicle with actual trunk space were obvious.
Lyndy glanced to her passenger a few times as they sped past wind turbines and sand hills, overtaking truck after truck. Sometimes Jackie stared at her Nokia mobile phone with its glowing screen, likely hoping for a sudden call from her daughter.
There were many questions she wanted to ask Jackie, not only about this case but her former life in Hollywood. Perhaps those would come in time. For now, The Spitfire was glad to have someone who wasn’t a chatterbox. Quiet was the second most optimal kind of passenger on the highway. The best were obviously fit young guys with good hearts and sweet personalities, but those were very hard to come by. Practically unicorns.
One hour later ….
Rickman told her he applied for a job one time as a tow-truck operator. The first thing they said to him was a warning disguised in a question: “Do you know how to fight?” This small anecdote had been running through Lyndy’s brain for the last half hour. Ever since the radio ceased getting reception.
It was a mostly uneventful drive through the Morongo Valley, then Yucca Valley and the village of Joshua Tree. She had the windows half down much of the time, to feel the air and help her think. The rumbling 390 cubic inch V8 filled her ears and as an added bonus, it didn’t overheat.
Silhouettes of many armed Joshua trees decorated the hillsides and open flats near the roadside—like scare crows in the night. Above them weathered rock formations loomed. She’d forgotten what a charming and fanciful place Joshua Tree could be, particularly for a young adult longing to experience the natural world.
Eventually, having given up on service, Jackie shut off and put away her phone. Even with the sun setting hours ago, air temps hovered in the mid-90s. The Spitfire could tell by the bank thermometer in Joshua Tree.
They turned off highway 62 at a side-street called Mesquite Springs Road.
Godzilla’s vehicle impound lot wasn’t hard to find. She spotted it from a mile away, a fort-like structure looming in the distance, out of character with the ragged homesteads, abandoned cabins and shoestring businesses. The place was ringed with twenty yellow street lamps, like an airport parking lot—an abomination.
Lyndy lowered her window all the way, and Jackie did the same, now that they were on backroads.
Roughly a 2-acre plot of land had been fenced in, except not with customary chain link, chicken wire or even corrugated tin like so many junk yards. This one was nothing short of a medieval fortress. Before approaching what constituted an office, Lyndy took a sharp turn to circle around the block.
Instead of a skinny fence, they’d taken the time to weld sections of iron water main pipe together, basically one upright post every eight feet, connected by a straight top piece. The rust-colored pipes were ten-inch diameter. No telling how deep the uprights had been sunk in the ground—twenty feet was enough to make them virtually indestructible. Except for the gate by the office, there were no gaps in this barrier. Even worse, that was only the middle layer. In front of this, they’d somehow obtained enough concrete k-rail—same stuff used on freeways—to encompass the perimeter. Just one twenty-foot k-rail section weighed approximately 8000 pounds, which she knew from the spray paint stenciling that sometimes could be read on the ends. The k-rail was connected by iron rods, as they did on freeways.
These folks weren’t just towing cars—they were preparing for a Mad-Max style future. All they needed now was a thunder dome and Tina Turner.
After building up these two defensive layers, they’d used a bulldozer to plow a mound of soil ten feet high into a dirt berm surrounding the whole lot. This made it difficult to see in and would slow any type of ramming attack. Smart. Lastly, atop that berm, a jagged metal fence had been constructed from scrap panels of diamond plate. Then for good measure, coils of razor wire had been placed. Something about this reminded her of the Berlin Wall. Only dark forces could conceive of something this diabolical: a fortress meant for stealing cars, and charging folks to get em back.
It was quiet in the Ford as reality set in. Both had an internal monologue. She could tell Jackie was frightened, and for good reason. Lyndy was anxious too. Though she didn’t speak, Jackie was thinking: “I told you so.”
Gathering her hair in a ponytail, Lyndy poked it through a scrunchie and sighed. She noted Jackie chose to wear an all-black ensemble, including black jeans. In contrast, Lyndy was wearing short-shorts plus a white spaghetti strap tank—for warm weather comfort.
After two loops around the yard, Lyndy pointed the wheel to the Godzilla management offices, fronting the street. There a smallish one-story cinder-block building had been erected, accompanied by a macho sign. Two tow-trucks were parked in front, the green ones displaying the logo of the fire-breathing monster which famously destroyed Tokyo. Tracks in the dirt showed they drove in and out fifty times a day or more. The third vehicle was a BMW M5, newish with a botched two-tone paint job. That car looked to be a man’s beloved daily driver.
Spinning fans indicated people inside. A little sign in the window alleged they were open for business—but these places kept long hours anyway.
Lyndy stepped out into the dry wind, facing some regret at her Daisy Duke inspired clothing; especially the tight top which left her hips exposed. Before the baby, this shirt used to fit.
A bell jingled and the AC fan kicked on as Lyndy entered. No surprise, they were awake.
The gang were nocturnal, like her.
“Howdy folks,” said Lyndy, using her deepest and most serious voice.
Two of the three men inside had been playing Mario Kart on a wall mounted TV, with the Nintendo console attached beneath. They were behind a tall counter with two banana style office phones, same setup as rental car agencies. The only art on the wall should’ve been a definite warning: It was a space shuttle but the copycat Russian version, called Buran, launching into the sky with an artfully drawn Godzilla monster pawing at it, but missing.
The walls were painted lava orange—interesting choice of palate.
Jackie, with her hair in a scarf and her sunglasses on, entered a few seconds later. She filled in behind Lyndy.
Another fellow had his arms folded. He’d been watching TV until the bell rang. He was dressed as a truck operator with overalls, baggy carpenter pants and a white cotton undershirt fitting him terribly, sleeves bunching up around his obese arms.
All three men were of eastern European descent; she could tell that much. Someone hit pause on the game. All eyes were suddenly fixed on her like a proverbial stranger entering a saloon.
“Hey Sergei, I must have forgot,” spoke the tallest among them, who appeared like an entrant in an Ivan Drago look-alike contest. She could tell a bad joke was coming. “Did you order a Mexican lap dance?” He had the accent to match, and all three men laughed heartily. His chubbier compadre, presumably named Sergei, who had also been playing Mario Kart had that wheezing laugh of an older smoker. These macho dudes were huge. Minimum weight was probably 220 between them. Multiply by 3, and this worked out to at least 660 pounds of men.
Lyndy smiled but did not laugh, while shoving her thumbs into the tiny front pockets of her jean shorts. Jackie showed no emotion. Continuing to smile, Lyndy nodded, “Yeah that joke’s a knee slapper. Ya’ll hold onto your senses of humor now. God knows … life is tough.” She rocked on her heels. “Anyways …”
“What can we do for you?” asked the chubbier Sergei. Given the circumstances, his eastern European accent sounded downright comical, like someone pretending to be a vampire. But he spoke English well—especially for a Russian. The third man in the trucker overalls, just stood there chewing tobacco like a cow with a mouth full of cud. All the while he was glaring at Jackie like an absolute creep.
“We’re searching for a tourist’s vehicle that came out of the national park,” said Lyndy cheerily. “Couple weeks back.”
“What type of vehicle? We get several per week.”
Lyndy glanced at Jackie. “A Jetta.”
“It was a black VW Jetta,” Jackie confirmed.
Sergei nodded his head. “Yes. Yes. Car is here.”
“Alrighty, we’d like to have that released to us. Jackie has a court order she can show you. How much do we owe?”
“Cost will be fifty thousand.”
Lyndy squinted her eyes, exhaling. Her gaze first fell upon Sergei, who was unflinching. She moved next to the taller guy who looked like Ivan Drago. That man was leering at her chest, making no attempt to hide it. “Dollars?” she asked.
“Yes. Best we can do.”
Lyndy raised an eyebrow. She turned back to the fifty-ish Sergei across from her at the counter, who was now resting both knuckles there. His body language mimed an arrogant pawn shop operator. She blinked, checking on the faces of the other two fellows for any sort of tell that it was still joke time.
“Seriously, just give us the real price so we can get outta here,” declared Lyndy.
Sergei shrugged.
“This is an outrage!”
“How would you like to go on a date with me?” interjected the tall man, out of nowhere. He shoved both his fists into the pocket of his overalls, leaning back against the wall, grinning smugly. “For a discount. I have a fetish for moms.”
In disbelief, Lyndy rotated to face him. “Listen to me carefully. I would rather gallop on a horse all day with an ass full of hemorrhoids … and no saddle.”
The chubby driver laughed, revealing black teeth as his whole belly trembled, then continued chewing. Now it was clear why the detectives had been unable to obtain the car. This place was hardly a business. Without Sabina’s car, she wasn’t sure they had anything to sustain their investigation.
“Look, you guys don’t understand. We’re not here to play games. We’re trying to find a missing person,” pleaded Lyndy. “They could be in grave danger as we speak. We don’t have time for BS. In fact, time is of the essence. If ya’ll wanna F around with me another time that’s fine.”
Sergei smirked. “This is why I love Latin women,” he mused. He touched his chest and said: “They do not whine or cry. Instead, they have the passion inside them.” He sniffed a huge amount of snot, swallowed it, then he scolded his friend. “Do not insult our customers, Block.”
“Wouldn’t want to damage the old BBB rating, eh,” joked Lyndy. “The tall guy is named Block?” thought Lyndy. How fitting.
“Fifty thousand dollars takes time,” Jackie asserted, using one finger to lower her shades. “I would have to get a bank to authorize it.”
Sergei gestured with his elbow and hand, making an “it’s okay” motion. Then he added, “Take time. Sergei will be here.”
Lyndy’s jaw dropped. Abruptly she pivoted one-eighty, spinning her purse around and marching for the door. She put an arm around Jackie, pulling her closer.
But as they were about to exit and have a discussion, the bell jangled once again. A disheveled man in dad shoes and a sweat stained polo shirt entered. Using the front of his shirt again, the newcomer began mopping many beads of sweat which had accumulated on his forehead.
He proceeded to the counter, inquiring about a Minivan which had broken down along the highway, near the national park exit. The vehicle had been towed by Godzilla towing. “Why did you take it into the yard?” he’d asked. They didn’t have an answer for that, but over hearing, he was quoted $8000 for a ten-mile tow.
Aiden S Clarke, author 