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Gasoline and Matches Part-11

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Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-11

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Behind the counter at the Vanishing Point was a well-loved copy of the board game Smess, and I used to play against lonely dudes like Lt. Col. Rickman, while simultaneously on the clock cocktail waitressing. Cathy did the same. I don’t know which bothered Rickman more. The fact I was a 23-year-old woman, or the fact that it was such a stupid game and he was still unable to beat me.

Helen’s eyes were wide and cheeks flush. She pointed anxiously to the metal bat. “Did … did you manage to scare em off with that?”

“Dios mios,” thought Lyndy. She’d fallen asleep with it balanced on her chest. Obviously, it tumbled off sometime in the wee hours. Landed on the hardwood floor, probably leaving a permanent dent. Thank goodness it wasn’t the Beretta. Now that would be terrifying.

“Uhhhh….” Lyndy always hated to lie, only at this point the truth was even more absurd sounding. “Note to self. I really need to see someone about this narcolepsy.”

Lyndy turned to reassure Helen. “Ummm, you’re right. Yep, I frightened them off. They saw me chasing and the rascals got scared.”

Fanning herself to keep from hyperventilating, Helen’s irregular breathing gradually returned to normal. “Are you … sure you’re, okay?” she asked in a much calmer voice.

“I’m fine,” Lyndy assured, holding out a hand. “Just a little banged up.”

“But … who would do this to you? Why didn’t you call the police?”

After straightening her shirt, Lyndy raced madly around the kitchen island, collecting dirty dishes in her arms to shove into the open dishwasher. She was thinking how to answer, and how best to handle this delicate Helen situation. Cause it would be hard for her to comprehend—even for a sympathetic individual like Helen.

Her concerns ran much deeper than the present situation. She needed friends up here. A mom without friends was a mom without an excuse to get her hair done. Or have a play date. Hillary Clinton once said: “it takes a village.” Wise words. This mountain town certainly qualified, especially if you saw it covered in snow and stretched your definition of “village” to include ski-chalets. Or maybe it was the void of not having a best friend, following the Rita split. Either way she couldn’t run the risk of driving potential friends away.

Helen pointed to the baby. “So then, how is little Maribel? Unharmed, thank goodness?”

Setting the dishes in a heap, Lyndy rushed to the pack-n-play arrangement. Hovering over and breathing a sigh of relief, Lyndy made the sign of the cross. “Yes. Her normal active self. But uh, yeesh. P-U!” Lyndy remarked, pinching her nose. “She needs a changing pronto.” Lyndy exhaled with her arms at her sides. Passing a hand over her totally bare and neglected-ly shaven thighs, she felt a twinge of embarrassment. She literally had nothing on but a tank and thin cotton panties.

Clearing her throat and shifting her perspective back to Helen, Lyndy added, “Ya know, lemme throw some clothes on quick. “Help yerself to a …,” twirling a finger, “a cold Zima if you want.”

Helen nodded, still somewhat in shock.

Alone in the bedroom, Lyndy whipped off her shirt. From the uppermost drawer of the oak dresser, she snatched a pair of sweats and a fresh t-shirt, pulling them on. She threw the bloody clothes in a pile, near the hamper, making a mental note she needed to burn those.

Dashing up the steps, returning to the top floor, Lyndy found Helen crouching near to the pack-n-play, holding out a finger so Maribel could wrap her tiny hands and practice her grip. Mari was smiling ear to ear, her face mesmerized. She adored Helen Mason for some reason.

Bending over the soft webbing, Lyndy scooped Mari in her arms, exclaiming: “Alrighty vanilla bean, the diaper police have caught you red handed! You are being detained.”

Helen chuckled.

Transporting the precious cargo against her chest, Lyndy beckoned Helen to follow her. She led the way to the lower floors of the cabin, careful not to rush the steep knotty pine stairs with a baby in tow.

“Okay Helen, I need to share something with you, but you have got to promise me this secret stays between us. Can I trust you?”

“Mmm-Hmmm,” Helen murmured, trailing Lyndy down the stairs. “Of course.”

At the changing table, Lyndy rested the smiling baby on her back. She undid the sticky tabs on the soiled diaper, prepping the powder and a package of moist wipes. “Helen, you should sit down for this,” warned Lyndy.

Backing up, Helen tested Lyndy’s rocking chair, the only seating in the nursery suitable for an adult. Attracted by the beautiful finish work, Helen traced her fingertips across the smooth side handles. She then studied the animal mobile, suspended above the crib.

Lyndy set her gaze on this charming young woman, with her wavy dye-blonde hairdo and petite frame. She couldn’t have been older than 30 or 31, possessing a certain innocence from this angle. Yet now her cheery countenance had been tempered, replaced by a solemn, thoughtful look in her eyes.

To this day, Lyndy Martinez counted on one hand the circle of women entrusted with her deepest secrets. Even opening up to Catherine Cookson or Rita, had come after a lengthy process of getting to know them. Yet something about Helen—a genuineness—made her seem worthy of trust.

“Can you believe I didn’t change a single diaper until I was forty? Now look at me.” Lyndy chuckled, shifting her attention back on wiping Mari clean with a wet wipe, while she spoke. It made it easier in some ways, not having to look Helen in the eye. “But listen, ever since I was in my teens I’ve had a unique set of … abilities.”

“Okay,” said Helen uneasily, letting Lyndy know she had her attention.

“Some might call it a gift. But I don’t.” Lyndy shrugged, without turning around. She continued wiping Mari clean, but doing so gently to prevent a rash or irritation. “When I find myself in a tense situation—the heat of battle—I take on this alternate persona. It’s called The Spitfire.”

Lyndy paused for a laugh or scoff from Helen. Meantime Mari kept shoving her fingers in her mouth, chewing on them.

“Point is when I’m this other person, it gives me super-human stamina,” continued Lyndy. “More strength and fighting abilities. You might say increased brainpower too.” She sprinkled a dash of the baby powder, rolling the baby side to side to make sure her tiny butt cheeks were lightly coated. “There’s no obvious transition—not outwardly. But when it happens, I can feel it inside. It’s there.”

Lyndy turned, locking eyes with Helen who’d been keeping her hands in her lap. She’d been listening intently.

“That’s how I managed to survive all the crazy circumstances I found myself in, working for Chan’s Bail Bonds. And later, when I was a bodyguard for Rita Lovelace.”

“How did you acquire this gift?” questioned Helen.

“There’s no scientific explanation—if that’s what you mean—other than it seems to run in my family on the Martinez side.” Lyndy paused to fasten the sticky tabs on the fresh diaper. Mari seemed relieved. A huge smile formed on her face as she looked deeply into the brown eyes of her mother. In kind, Lyndy’s heart swelled with joy. “An alternate theory is it may have been passed down to me by a woman named Mabel Dixon. She was the warden at a youth detention center where I was locked up. But we don’t need to get into that.”

Lifting Mari into her arms, Lyndy twirled around, facing Helen.

“The reason I’m telling you this is … well … I’ve been moonlighting as a private investigator since I was in my early twenties. Believe me, I tried putting an end to this life years ago, but I just can’t seem to shake it out of my system. That, and Miss Lovelace keeps sending new clients my way. Used to be only her father would do it, but now her too. Last night, I got in a dust-up cause I needed that black car sitting in the driveway. That’s why I’m bruised. It’s a missing teen’s car actually.”

Lyndy stuffed Mari into a clean onesie, poking each chubby wrist through the sleeve holes one at a time. Once smoothed enough to cover her belly and torso, Lyndy buttoned the flap between her legs.

“Wait. That name sounds familiar.” Helen blinked her eyes, shaking her head. “I thought I heard you say you were a bodyguard for Rita Lovelace—you mean the Rita Lovelace?”

Lyndy nodded yes.

“World-famous model who made the cover of Vogue two times? Wow, I loved her. She was huge! Like, she was a super-model before supermodels were a thing!”

“That’s right.” Lyndy rocked her daughter by swaying her hips side-to-side. Flicking a finger, she spun the mobile for Mari, allowing her to watch and reach out, grasping for the colorful animals.

“Oh my gosh. How did I not know this amazing fact about you?”

Next Helen lowered her chin, gripping the arms while slumping deeper in the chair. Her cheeks drooped and her nose began to twitch, as she sniffed. “Well, to tell the truth, in spite of outward appearances I was mostly unprepared for the trials of motherhood. My own mom did a poor job teaching me anything of value. I knew only what you see on TV. Which is all crap by the way. Also, I once broke up with a nice guy cause I didn’t believe he had enough future earning potential.” She exhaled loudly. “We were genuinely love. And now … now I’m worried I might’ve made the wrong decision. And for what?”

Lyndy rubbed her eyes, not knowing what to say. “Uhmm. Alrighty. Why did you tell me that?”

Helen’s shoulders began to heave. Her voice cracked with heartfelt emotion. “I thought like, it was a bonding moment and we were sharing each other’s secrets?”

“No, it’s not really that kind of moment, Helen. I was telling you all this now so you understood why I appear disheveled, and there’s a strange car in the driveway. By the way, you cannot share any of this prior conversation with your husband. It’s all off limits. Do you understand?”

“Oh, sorry, you’re right,” said Helen, wiping her nose with the back of her palm, getting herself together. “Look at me, I’m a mess too.” She made a hand motion like someone zipping up their lips.

Lyndy nodded to the garage. “Rotten part is, I already searched that damn Jetta twice last night. Which means, I basically kicked the asses of three grifters for nothing.”

Reaching into the tiny key pocket of her yoga pant ensemble, Helen began fishing for something. “Well, that reminds me. I found something strange on the floor of your garage.”

“You did? What?”

“This,” said Helen, holding out a tan piece of paper from a cheaply printed book. The scrap of paper was both torn and hand rolled, like someone had been using it as a makeshift cigarette wrapper. Made sense why she hadn’t seen it in the night, as a cigarette falling out a car wouldn’t have been terribly obvious or unusual.

Wonder Valley, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Rochelle Bishop auditioned to be a presenter on a popular TV game show. Mind you she was a well-regarded dancer prior to this, and worked off and on as a cocktail waitress in several prominent night clubs. At the end of her audition, the TV producers told her they loved her energy, quick wit and contagious smile. They even said she was probably the best choice for the job, only she was about 50 pounds heavier than the role required. Too bad. As they called “next”, Rochelle stormed off, saying it took every ounce of self-control not to flip all the tables in the room.

Striking a match against the gritty side of a paper matchbox, Debbie Kowalski watched her tiny spark flicker to life. Sheltering the flame from the sundowner breeze, she undid the metal latch of a dusty storm lantern—the kind made of stamped tin—then transferred the tiny orange flame to the cotton wick.

The glass orb, cracked yet mostly intact, did a great job of protecting the wick.

Due to extreme isolation the Wonder Valley homestead wasn’t connected to the grid. A sliver of moon high in the east was lovely, but didn’t suffice as a work light. With twilight fading, Debbie would need this lantern if she wanted to continue the act of mending things. Her ultimate goal: working her way to the lofty triumph of getting one of two non-operating autos to move under their own power. Using scrap plywood and some cinder blocks, Debbie fashioned a work-bench of sorts, which she could sit cross-legged in front of.

Tucked amongst jumbled scrap piles, near to the precious rock collection, was the old geezer’s tool chest. Above her, limbs of two blue palo verde trees had grown interconnected, providing a canopy of sorts spanning the junk patch. From one of the low branches Debbie affixed the lantern. This then was her shop-light.

Placing a fist in front of her mouth, she yawned.

Perhaps one positive about the Mojave sun going down was the heat breaking. With her headache subsiding, having re-hydrated on warm Yoo-Hoo, Debbie felt like she could think clearly again. Though as her senses returned, she wished for a shower so she didn’t have to smell her own sweaty B-O.

For some reason the overly dramatic intro theme to Dallas was stuck on repeat in her head. She didn’t even like the show. Only her mother did. But that tune was an ear-worm. Nothing she could do about it, but a possible cure if she could get a radio working.

She next turned her attention to a small, cheaply made transistor radio liberated from the porch rail of the old geezer’s cabin. It was a Grayco model sold at Woolworth stores, possibly from the late 1950s. Pursing her lips, Debbie blew away cobwebs and the most egregious layer of dust.

Some might call it a warm up—an easy task to get her electrical problem-solving juices flowing again.

With a no-name brand screwdriver, Debbie undid three of the corner screws, allowing her to detach the plastic cover. The back portion snapped off easily, exposing copper coils, transistors, capacitors, diodes and amplifiers. Being an older device, the circuit board was shockingly primitive. Re-positioning it under the glow of the lantern Debbie inspected the parts. She’d anticipated the batteries were oozing their guts out or the tubes were blackened. But an eyeball inspection revealed nothing insurmountable.

Clawing out the 9V battery, she touched the terminals to her moistened lips, testing it. Sure enough—bit of a jolt. Thus, some juice left in it.

The antenna was a ferrite core type, common in those days, wrapped with fifteen or so feet of copper wire strand. Debbie traced the path from the antenna, through the amplifiers, the tuning circuit, to the intermediate stage and lastly to the cone speaker.

After a moment of deep thought she reasoned the cause. The wire feeding the single cone speaker had frayed to nothing, or else a small critter had devoured the insulating material. The connection subsequently shorted against the case clamps and melted away.

Scratching her head, Debbie supposed the best remedy was to harvest some of the fresh copper wire off the antenna coil itself—it had more than enough. She could use this to field repair the severed connection.

Pulling the knobs on the drawers of an old craftsman tool box, she found they wouldn’t budge. Rusted shut. She yanked harder, in hunt for a pair of wire cutters. As it broke loose a sudden eye motion and the head of a reptile poked out at her, causing Debbie to jump back.

All her muscles seized. Having lived damn near half her life out west, she had a healthy fear of pit vipers. Her tiny hairs stood on end and goose bumps formed on her arms.

Funny thing though, the creature seemed rather cordial, tilting its head like a curious bird. If this animal could talk, it would probably sound like Kermit the Frog.

Recovering from a mini-heart attack, Debbie studied it. This creature was no snake, rather a lizard with gecko-eyes and shimmering, moist skin. With a calmer attitude and a little more light, she recognized the species—an unusual one. These were called granite night lizards, and they had some curious abilities.

If one of her university professors saw this—the wacky reptile guy with the white hair whom she could never remember the name of—he’d be excited.

The night lizard shared traits in common with chameleons. If one were patient enough, their glossy scales would literally change color before your eyes, in the course of a minute or two. Thus, the unusual shimmering nature of the skin. The little guy had adapted to the dull brown of the tool bin, which is why he’d been hard to spot.

Cupping her fingers, Debbie encouraged the friendly lizard to walk onto her palm. He did so with halting, bird-like movement while his eyes studied her. Gently, she offered him a magic carpet ride to a nearby crevice in the trees where he could watch her in safety, while she opened and closed the drawers on the tool bin.

The palo verdes had been imported, however it seemed likely the semi-circular cluster of palm trees were native. Their roots ran deep, thirty or forty feet—predating the cabin—tapping into an underground water source. Which meant indigenous peoples had camped here, likely for centuries. Perhaps the lizards had been brought here by one of these ancient desert-dwelling tribes, transported from a habitat hundreds of miles away.

Another surprising characteristic—these lizards gave birth live. Something about that was unsettling in a reptile. Debbie got the willies thinking about a lizard giving birth.

Cringing, she remembered her halfway toxic mother figure—the woman who could watch Dallas and seem to enjoy it. The voice she used when she lectured Debbie that boys simply wouldn’t be interested in a girl who outwitted them in math, chemistry or worse, had superior mechanical abilities when it came to tools. Add to this, Debbie’s looks were nothing to write home about. Though unspoken, her metabolism and chubby features didn’t match whatever expectations her mother had for how she wanted a daughter to look. Her old-fashioned mother warned her that men liked to be the ones who repaired things and balanced the checkbook.

Her advice was to fake like she couldn’t do math. Debbie rolled her eyes as she twisted the fraying copper strands. She snipped it to the correct length with the rusty, but otherwise functional diagonal cutters.

Unfortunately for her mother, Debbie had been born a scientist—a gifted one at that. When once measured, it was discovered her IQ was almost off the charts. And yet being born a female, that didn’t count for much. On days like this Debbie often wondered if her mother was correct about a thing or two.

Tightening down the wire with the screwdriver, she flipped the radio around. Everything should be attached.

Switching it on, she tuned the dial right-to-left to see if any stations were within range. She half expected a religious sermon, or perhaps Spanish language programming. But no such. She heard music, cutting faintly through the noise.

Debbie tuned it again, twisting the silver-white knob. She could hear a sweet thumping guitar rhythm. Next, she twisted the volume knob, recognizing a familiar masculine voice. The voice of a man born to rock. He was so cool, people called him “the boss.”

Debbie couldn’t help strutting her shoulders, and soon thrusting her hips—miming the way Cathy Cookson or Lyndy Martinez would dance together next to the jukebox at the VP. They were both good dancers. That song was fire!

Debbie stood up and did a little whirl. Closing her eyes, she almost forgot how miserable she was. Maybe this was an omen. Men absolutely loved it when Lyndy and Cathy danced at the V-P. And sometimes Debbie would watch them, fantasizing about being cool.

The song was a B-side originally, not commonly played on the radio. Pink Cadillac.

Debbie was wise enough to know there were branches of physics yet to be discovered, and resonant frequencies which bridged the divide between space and time. Which is why, she couldn’t help feeling someone might be sending her a coded message. Who?

Who indeed.

Gasoline and Matches Part-10

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Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-10

Lyndy Life Observation: A man applied for employment at the V-P Roadhouse. His resume listed one of his previous occupations as: “Technical Director for Rapid Human Ejection.” I asked Mr. Potts what that meant and he answered without skipping a beat, “fancy term for bouncer.”

Lyndy used the rifle as a defensive bo-staff, countering each strike and preventing Block from slicing her. He lunged forward as Lyndy bent at the hips, ducking low and kicking with max force at his wrist. Even this blow didn’t dislodge the Rambo knife. Instead, Block’s torso tipped sideways, only serving to knock him off balance. He recovered quickly, but Lyndy continued to fight.

Backing up a step, Lyndy planted the ball of her left foot to brace herself. Because the weapon wasn’t an ideal proxy for a bo, it felt unbalanced, more akin to a broomstick. Adjusting her grip to be nearer the center of mass, with a tighter grasp, Lyndy exercised her fingers.

The hot blood staining Block’s shirt continued expanding. She had to give him some props. He wielded the knife as a trained professional. He was a tough opponent with a high pain tolerance; most men would shrivel up from such a gaping wound.

In her periphery, Lyndy sensed more motion at the building, the front door having been knocked wide open. Sergei appeared holding something tubular on his shoulder. At first, she assumed it was a shotgun, but a second glance revealed it was way too large in circumference to be that. The Tug stalled at last and the motor died.

Lyndy and her foe circled slowly in a clockwise direction.

Repeatedly she tested Block, stamping her foot closer to him as though going in for a quick kill. Her motivations were in testing his response. At first, he showed no reaction, only the permanent crazed look on his face. Block easily ignored the bait, observing her movements like a disciplined boxer. His patience belied strength and one hell of a reach. She did it again, altering her pattern. Once within striking distance, he slashed the knife in a blow that would’ve cut deep into her knee. Except she’d pulled away in the nick of time.

Block’s eyes weren’t tracking as well as before, not like the rest of him. He took another downward slash, almost straight at her in a karate chop motion. Deflecting this with the center of the rifle, Lyndy felt her bones rattle. The sound of the knife impacting the dull finish of the gun created an unnerving clashing of swords sound. Then twisting the rifle by 90 degrees, she smashed the stock against Block’s chin. He seemed not to have registered the oncoming blow, but as soon as it hit him, he appeared dazed.

Twisting the gun again, Lyndy rammed the muzzle into his stomach. As Block doubled forward, she side-kicked her boot into his rib cage—which felt like kicking a telephone pole. Next, she windmilled the stock so it slammed into the side of Block’s head. Amazingly, he still wouldn’t go down. He tried to kick her, but she caught and deflected his foot easily using both her fists cupped together. She knew the tide was turning.

Shifting her attention momentarily onto Sergei, she felt dismayed seeing him aiming a bazooka at the Coleman Tug. That was smart. Without that exotic vehicle, her plan to tear down the dozer-shovel gate would fail. She tried to think fast. In the corner of her eye, she sensed Block bending his good arm back. Making an educated guess he was throwing his bowie knife, she dove with the speed of a fox onto a rabbit hole, dropping the gun and flopping to a push-up stance.

The knife sailed over her body, another twelve or so feet beyond and finally lodged in the hamstring of Sergei. Leaning on an elbow, Lyndy rotated to one side, waiting to see what would happen next. The result, was Sergei had been in the act of firing his RPG as his spine contorted.

Block froze in shock at having wounded his comrade. She used this fractional second and the sandy soil to execute a round-house kick—her strongest—knocking Block in the temple. The blow expelled bloody mucus from his open jaw as Block collapsed into a heap on the soil. His eyes shut. Maintaining balance, she landed back on her feet without toppling.

Because reflexively, Sergei’s leg muscles stiffened and he recoiled in agony, his back tweaked past 90 degrees. His careful aim was thrown way off. Instead of propelling straight at the Tug, the rocket fired at an upward trajectory. With a fiery blast and a blinding bright orange glow, the projectile launched on an arc whisking high across the road and continued gaining altitude. Somewhere beyond the nearby housing, it reached an apex, then continued on a parabolic track back toward a dry wash between neighborhoods.

Lyndy knew two types of grenades: the kind which exploded upon impact with a solid object and the type with a timing fuse. She didn’t know which this was. On the other hand, she knew the fight would continue regardless of where the grenade fell.

Collectively the three of them held their breath. They all were thinking: “Yikes! That’s not good.”

As soon as it landed in the dry ditch, the rocket detonated—meaning the impact kind. The blast was deafening and absurdly bright to a human eye adapted to the darkness. The dry foliage in the wash exploded in fire, torching all the smoke trees and a number of protected Joshua trees.

Sergei whipped around to face Lyndy with rage in his small eyes. Ignoring the knife wound in his leg, he raced at her like an angry bear. Lyndy did the same, and for an instant they ran toward one another like two locomotives on a collision course. When he was within range, Sergei threw a full body punch, aiming straight at her face. The blow would’ve killed her, but Lyndy blocked it by raising her elbows and rotating at the hips. With her other leg, she sprang off the ground and windmill kicked Sergei in the chin. While he was stunned, she uncapped the bear spray in her pocket. Pulling the pin and hitting the trigger, she marked a thick line right across his eyes and nose.

Instinctively Sergei put both hands up to cover his face, bellowing in agony. The bowie knife was the type with a blood gutter. Lyndy rolled into a crouch. Gripping the handle as tightly as she could in her right hand, she yanked the knife horizontally out of Sergei’s thigh.

Next, she elbowed him behind the knees, causing him to double over.

Meantime the third driver—the one who’d been originally in the overalls—exited the building. This time, the attacker had a real pump-action shotgun. He immediately aimed the gun at Lyndy and Sergei, resting it on his shoulder in a hunter’s stance. Before his finger could pull the trigger, Lyndy chucked the knife she was holding as hard as he could.

It sailed through the air, lodging in the man’s belly, near his beltline. The knife plunged so deeply in his gut, only the handle showed. A state of shock came over him. The fellow dropped the gun. Flailing desperately to remove the knife in a clumsy motion, he fell against the wall. Within seconds his body become limp. He collapsed in a heap.

Sergei soon went fleeing for the BMW, holding his cheeks. He was waddling as fast as his legs could carry him, given the injury to his thigh. Without even shutting his car door, he fired it up and spun the wheels to accelerate away. “What a sissy,” thought Lyndy. A real warrior would’ve checked on his comrades.

Pulling the Berretta, Lyndy checked on Block. He wasn’t moving.  She’d expected him to be faking unconsciousness. Holding steady, catching her breath with a bead on his head for half a minute, she waited for something to happen. Nothing did. She approached his limp body and gave him a nudge to the groin. There was no response.

Hurriedly, Lyndy checked herself for unfelt injuries while attempting to calm her nerves. In the intense heat of battle, it was easy not to notice having been hit. But all she felt pain wise was the ache in her bones, from a car accident and fighting much larger men.

Distantly she heard sirens, snapping her from the momentary calm. The Spitfire ran for the Tug, knowing she needed to get it started.

With a hint of optimism that it would restart, Lyndy retrieved heavy cargo chains from the storage area under the hitch. She heaved one coil of 3/8 chain over each shoulder and marched to the pneumatic fence. Alone, the coils weighed over 40 pounds.

Trudging through the dirt, with her ankles and thighs straining at the mass, she looped the chain over each corner of the barrier. Then, shrugging the weight, Lyndy shifted into a tug-o-war stance. Using this method, yanking and pulling, she squirmed like a fish until both were taught. With a snatch hook, she clipped them into the tow hitch on the front bumper of the Tug.

Now she just needed the damn thing to start.

But of course, it didn’t. This time when she turned the key, the starter buzzed but the motor wouldn’t turn over. She tried again, twisting the key and pressing the cutch pedal flat with her entire weight, using her wrists to push on the roof. NADA! Buzzing but no joy. Exhaling, she let her forehead slam onto the wheel. The flex plate or something in the rain of gunfire must’ve become mis-aligned. And the sirens were getting louder. Probably fire trucks to put out the small brush fire in the wash, before it spread to homes or the surrounding areas. Hopefully they were pre-occupied.

Hopping out, she grabbed for a hammer and bounced on the ground. Rolling under the car, Lyndy located the starter and gave it a good sharp THWACK. The gong sound rang her ears. Pitching back and rolling into the clear, she climbed up to the cab.

This time the primitive motor cycled over. Coughing and sputtering, the diesel roared to life. The chugging of the diesel, normally an irritant—like someone making a motorboat with their lips—was music to hear ears.

A part of her feared the snapping chains would let fly, becoming deadly projectiles and pinching her head off. But no time to worry about such low probability events. Sooty exhaust puffed like a volcano into the air as the engine rattled. With its herculean pulling power, the massive pneumatic shovel blade began to tip forward, pulling out huge concrete pylons from the ground beneath it. The pylons were like the root balls of a massive oak. Once they’d been liberated from the soil, the rest of the gate mechanism came tumbling forward.

The gates to the city had fallen. Now Vikings were running amok through the heart of Paris. And Godzilla met his match.  

45 minutes later…

A string of lights floated in the sky—like glowing orbs—representing the long line of Southwest planes approaching Ontario. All waiting for a runway.

Chan would’ve called it her greatest hat trick ever. She wished he were still alive. She would’ve loved rolling up to his trailer, cracking a beer or two and regaling him with her tales of battle. He probably would’ve called her “Melinda” and done one of his trademark: “Huh, huh, huh,” deep laughs. Nowadays she missed those.

She kept smiling, and a few times she laughed into the wind.

Though her confidence soared, The Spitfire still checked her mirror about a hundred times between the town of J-Tree and Banning pass.

The surge of pure energy from a victory of epic proportions began waning as she approached the base of the San Bernardino’s and Highway 18.

Other than survival, nothing much was on her mind. Until now.

Soon Lyndy began pondering, “Just what type of valuable, case-breaking clues were in this car for which she’d risked life, limb and the future success of her offspring?” A crummy Jetta would not be worthy.

A simple glance behind the seat suggested nothing of substance. A wrapper for a candy bar and a Diet Coke can the only items reflecting in the scant shine of streetlights.

A sinking feeling began to settle in the bottom of stomach. “híjole!” Lyndy mouthed, with a sigh. Before taking this thing up the hill, she decided to give it a once over.

Next morning …

Lake Arrowhead CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: On a summer afternoon Rickman was busy working underneath his Cobra Jet Mercury in the side yard. Must’ve been 90 degrees or more, cause I was wearing a bathing suit top and cutoff shorts. He needed a different size wrench, and I kept circling back and forth to the garage bringing him the wrong one. Obviously, I didn’t know fractions to save my life. He was very frustrated with me but trying to stay patient and not look like an A-hole. He was like: “No Lyn, listen carefully, this is an 11/64, I obviously need a 3/16.” Finally, I go to the garage and drag his entire 165-pound tool bin, containing every earthly wrench he owns across the driveway, the lawn and into the side yard.

As she came to, Lyndy heard strange voices emanating from a TV set. She knew she must be crashed out on the rustic loveseat, cause every damn sofa in this cabin stunk for sleeping. Compact design and oversize pine logs serving as arm-rests, meant her ankles and feet were simply dangling in space. Placing her fists on her eyes, Lyndy rubbed the sockets with her knuckles.

Every muscle and joint ached. She knew it wasn’t only the fighting that did it, rather the terrible wreck when the truck plowed into the brick building. Her body slamming against an unpadded metal dash—that’ll do it alright.

Letting her head slump rightward against her shoulder, she could see the TV was on a network station, running a popular daytime talk show. Today’s topic scrolled at the bottom edge of the screen: My husband is a truck driver; I just found out he secretly has another family across state lines. Which might have been amusing, if not for hitting close to home. Dr. Ellis did in fact have an entirely separate family, whom he’d been neglecting. Although they lived in Riverside, with Becky—the alpha wife.

Reaching out to the rectangular oak coffee table, Lyndy closed her fingers around the Costco-size bottle of liquid Advil. Beyond this, the wall of windows opened to a magnificent view overlooking the lake. Mid-morning sun streamed down on the lake, making it shine.

A moment of, “oh dear god, I think I’m a mom! Where is my baby?” swept over Lyndy. I mean, seriously, where is my baby?

But all was well. Refocusing a bit closer, she could see Mari Ellis safely corralled in her pack-n-play, surrounded by baby toys, a teddy bear and her favorite blanket. She’d been busy with one of those rainbow wire spaghetti toys containing the wooden beads one could move around. That chaotic invention could keep a baby occupied for an hour or two.

It was like an abacus, but for math on an inter-dimensional level. Hmmm.

Seeing her mommy awake, Mari ceased her activities, then commenced staring at her while teething on her soft foam giraffe. The look-through-you with blue eyes stare.

Lucky for that pack-n-play thing too. God knows what would’ve happened without it. Maribel Ellis smiled to her mother, then resumed the all-important task of moving a bead from one end of the spaghetti to the other.

Twisting the cap on the Advil, Lyndy dumped four of the capsules into her mouth, swallowing them dry.

“Mommy had a rough night okay,” whispered Lyndy, a hoarseness in her voice.

Over at the kitchen island, lunch sat untouched. Mari had neglected a meal of steamed carrots, chicken cubes and elbow pasta. Lyndy couldn’t remember even cooking that. Geez.

A spark of resentment stirred inside. “Do you know when I was a kid I had like 2 toys?” Lyndy remarked to Maribel. “Now look at this place.”

She’d need to do a little vacuuming before Kyle returned from his business trip.

Compared to growing up an orphan in East LA, this love child enjoyed a life of pure luxury. Maribel Ellis dined on fancy food from boutique grocery stores, she had a top-of-the-line car seat, a similarly space age stroller and slept in a beautiful crib made of yellow oak. The crib itself had clean, crisp sheets.

By contrast, in one of her earliest memories, Lyndy Martinez awoke covered in biting ants, since her mattress was always on the floor and the insects had been attracted to cake crumbs she’d been eating when falling asleep.

Lyndy knew it was petty to resent Maribel for not having to suffer. Logically she didn’t want her child to suffer. Of course not. But it was annoying feeding this baby the equivalent of a three-course meal, then watching it go cold.

She heard footsteps on the stairs.

Lyndy froze. Maribel did the same, pausing mid-activity. Too early for Kyle. Both of them stared at the landing where the stairs connected to the kitchen. Even Mari knew it wasn’t daddy, or she would’ve been shouting the word “DADA” over an over.

“Hello?” The voice of Helen Mason echoed from the hallway stairs. “Lyndy Martinez? Are you here?”

A panic set in as her eyes bugged out.  “What was Helen doing here? Aye caramba!”

The kitchen and living room were an absolute disaster zone. The ape exhibit at the zoo was a cleaner, tidier environment to have friends over and Lyndy had no time. Worse, she had visible bruising showing on her arms and face, no time to apply makeup. Even worse, she actually wanted Helen Mason to like her, thus caring how things looked. This was completely unexpected.

Did they have some coffee date she’d forgotten? And why hadn’t she locked the door? Foolish! Lyndy checked her watch.

Helen’s profile appeared near the top of the stairs, looking perfect as ever. She had a purse with a brand logo Lyndy couldn’t even pronounce. Something like HPHFO—apparently, they were expensive. Her sporty headband matched her leg warmers, and her spandex pants hugged her hips perfectly.

There was nothing to do but spectate in the slow-motion train wreck.

“I was coming back from yoga class and I saw this strange car in the driveway, where your vintage Mustang usually is. And I thought, you know—that’s sort of off. Maybe I ought to pop in and check if everything is okay.” Helen had been still coming up the second flight of stairs while saying all this. “And the front door was open … and ….”

Pausing for a breath or two, Helen slowly took in the top floor scene. The many dirty dishes. The uneaten food on the counter. Lyndy, sprawled out on the couch in a blood-splattered tank-top and panties. A metal baseball bat on the floor beside her.

“Oh my … how awful! Lyndy…,” the look of horror showed on Helen’s face. Bracing herself on the counter so she wouldn’t collapse, Helen stammered for the right words. “Oh, sweet, sweet girl, you’ve been assaulted!” Helen’s head swiveled as she took in the mess. “And in your own home.”

“No, no, Helen,” Lyndy jumped up to correct, wishing she had a robe or something to cover up. She poked the mute button the TV remote. “I’m totally okay.”

Explaining that, if anything, she’d been the one who’d done most of the “assaulting” seemed like fanning the flames. Probably the wrong thing to say in a time like this. First order of business was to prevent Helen from dialing 911 on the wall phone.

Gasoline and Matches Part-6

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Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-6

29 Palms, CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: At one of her big Tucson birthday bashes, Rita was depressed about turning 36. Obviously, she was difficult to shop for. Someone must’ve forgotten to purchase a gift—or understandably not thought of anything—and amongst the pile of scarfs, aroma therapy candles, sun hats and champagne bottles she found an index card, with a handwritten note that said: “coupon for one free back rub”. Rita was annoyed, so much so, she contemplated flying to wherever this lady lived and demanding her back rub.

Sergei—owner-operator of Godzilla Towing—was unwilling to budge on the absurd price of eight thousand dollars for a simple tow.

“But I’m a AAA member?” the customer argued. “I have towing coverage.”

“Sergei is not affiliated with AAA,” the owner answered. “Sorry.”

Block and his unnamed driver compadre menaced the timid stranger each time he happened to check his surroundings. The poor father said his kids were hot, exhausted and he needed to get his car back. Sergei shrugged.

Mind you it was well after midnight.

Further, the family-man customer also claimed that his yearly annual salary was only 24 thousand dollars, and most of his savings would be eroded if he had to pay their unfair price. Again, Sergei shrugged it off.

Then to Lyndy’s astonishment, the family man wrote a check for the same amount. He could’ve gone out and purchased a good used car for that. Sergei made a copy of the man’s driver’s license, presumably so he could nail him to a wall in case it bounced.

“We need to chat pronto,” whispered Lyndy, looping her arm through Jackie’s while pushing open the exit door. A part of her wondered if that steel door had a secret button to lock it. Whether or not it did, Sergei allowed the pair to exit, Lyndy pulling Jackie with her.

Outside in the glare of the yellow streetlamps, Lyndy folded her arms while Jackie leaned against the car. Both their hearts were racing, and sweat had begun accumulating on Lyndy’s exposed skin.

She gazed at the barricades protecting the car storage area. Unfortunately, she couldn’t spot the Jetta from here. Next Lyndy studied the front of Godzilla Towing, where the office connected to the one and only gate. The arms of their gate were constructed of the same ten-inch water pipe as the rest of the fence line. They had a guard shack, made entirely of iron, with a tiny peephole window. Behind the gate arm, another barrier, this one seeming to have been a shovel for an enormous CAT bulldozer. It was attached to the hydraulic system, which could raise and lower it. Currently the barrier was in the upright closed position, looking beefy enough to stop a tank. Any hole or gap had been stuffed with razor wire.

Bracing on the trunk of the Ford with both elbows, Jackie heaved a series of labored breaths. Her back arched up and down as she continued panting, letting out the tension. For a brief moment she appeared ready to throw up. Recovering some, Jackie twisted to face Lyndy, pinching her tiny crucifix. Still struggling with words, and now with tears pooling in her eyes, Jackie spoke in a halting speech pattern. “Maybe … maybe I can go to a bank branch tomorrow … start the process of moving funds? They probably have one in Redlands.” Jackie slapped her hands lightly at her cheeks, feeling light headed.

“I disagree. No F-ing way we pay these creeps ransom money,” argued Lyndy. “In any case, let’s not make the decision in front of em. We need to jet; work this out someplace else.”

Moving swiftly to the driver’s door, Lyndy ducked into the bucket seat while Jackie circled to the passenger side.

As Lyndy inserted her key, the office door flung open and the tallest man in the overalls and wife-beater came striding out, showing amusement on his rectangular face. In his right arm Block casually brandished a Kalashnikov, pacing with the muzzle pointed toward the ground. The curved magazine was inserted, but no way to tell if it was loaded. Best to assume yes.

He gestured with his chin. “Classic car!”

Lyndy narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be back,” she shouted, over the roar of the motor.

She couldn’t hear his response, but Block’s chapped lips mouthed something like: “I’ll be waiting.”

Block continued mad-dogging her as Lyndy slammed it in reverse, performed an expert Rockford turn, then kicked up a rooster tail of sand as she accelerated away from the parking area.

A half mile later, they veered off pavement at a McDonald’s franchise with an outdoor patio. Due to the early hour the restaurant was closed, doors inside locked and the play place looking rather austere. The parking lot was devoid of customers.

Lyndy hopped a smallish brick wall to enter the patio and reluctantly, Jackie followed. Crickets were chirping loudly in the night—seemed like a plague of them.

“What if they follow us?” she whispered in a worrisome tone.

“They won’t,” stated Lyndy confidently.

Jackie shivered, not from the cold but the surge of adrenaline.

Positioned along the cement walkway to the restaurant entry, were a series of newspaper dispensers. Two of these were for real newspapers. The third in line, contained a free copy of Truck-Trader.

“Oh perfect!” remarked Lyndy, dashing to the display unit. Lifting the lid made the hinges creak—piercing the calm—but she yanked out a fresh copy. This three-quarter inch printed volume came chock full with advertisements for trucks available in the inland empire and high desert area. Best of all, most ads were private party.

 Lyndy took a seat backwards in one of the plastic chairs, flopping the book on the table. She opened it straight to the last twenty or so-pages, containing the oddball vehicles.

Meantime a hot wind started blowing, lifting her permed hair and causing Lyndy to press the edge of the pages with a firm hand to keep it steady.

“What’re you planning?” Jackie questioned, beginning to puff on a sheltered Newport and bouncing her weight from ankle to ankle.

“I don’t know yet,” muttered Lyndy as she studied the pages, each comprising a dozen or so ads. After a few seconds she flipped the page to the next, holding her hair in one hand, keeping it from blowing around too much.

Prior to this, she’d never had much interest in the weird stuff. The back consisted mainly of rare makes, a category of kit cars, some homebrew Frankenstein shit and vehicles with unusual purposes. For example, circus trucks with big iron cages for moving gorillas and elephants. And trucks with ramps for motorcycle stunt shows.

“It’s never a good idea to fight people,” scolded Jackie. “I didn’t hire you to do that.”

Lyndy sniffed, ignoring the remarks.

“Why do we care about these rude men? We just need the Jetta,” Jackie pleaded.

“I fully agree with you. I don’t care about them,” The Spitfire replied. “But no effing way they’re getting what they want. We’re not paying them a penny.”

Jackie shrugged. “Where do we go from here? We need the car. We should pay them.” She commenced sucking on her cigarette, reminding Lyndy of someone trying to suck in a thick milkshake through a straw.

Lyndy exhaled, flipping to the next page in the book. “How many other private eyes have you worked with?”

“Two, not counting police detectives.”

“Did they get any results?” Lyndy knew the true answer before asking, but Jackie’s silence only served to confirm. “Look Jackie, you are welcome to hang back and stay safe. But it doesn’t matter what you want. I’m going to destroy that place.”

“You have a death wish. You’re insane!” shouted Jackie, and she stormed off.

Lyndy breathed a sigh of momentary relief. She continued to study the pages. Two ads caught her attention. The first was a White Manufacturing cabover diesel semi-truck, which was not outfitted for long-haul freighting. Rather, the White diesel was for rugged use in ports, for moving heavy containers over short distance. How it ended up in the desert was anyone’s guess. The second, another unusual make, was a Coleman aircraft tug.

Given the two were equally enticing, Lyndy favored the Coleman Tug, because that vehicle was advertised as being located in Joshua Tree.

Jackie had marched to the highway by herself. She didn’t get very far. She’d looped back and then sat down on a table, facing the road. “Jesus would say turn the other cheek,” she muttered.

Lyndy popped the cap on a bottle of Tab she’d saved in the trunk, taking a series of long gulps. “Maybe so. But remember, Jesus also flipped over a bunch of tables at the temple cause he was pissed at the money changers. So in that sense … ” Lyndy trailed off.

A small tremble of a smile formed on Jackie’s face.

“By the way, I haven’t been to confession in like 8 years.”

Jackie’s arms were open wide, her fingers dangling in air on both sides of the table. A detectable tremor also lingered in her extremities, and her feet continued bouncing heel to toe. The effect of the excitement had long worn off on Lyndy.

“Are you okay?”

Leaning her head all the way back, til her eyes were pointed at the stars in the Milky Way, Jackie let out a slow breath. “Yes. It’s just, I don’t think I’ve felt anything in a while. I’ve been numb to it all … other than grief. I honestly forgot what the sensation of living was like.”

5:50 AM, Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

She awoke to a frightening, chaotic scene, and a sound she hoped to never endure again. It was terrifying, the room in shadow, hearing the man she loved moaning in pain. Men were more sensitive to pain, yet his cries were genuine.

For a brief instant, Lyndy didn’t know where she was. Darkness still covered the cabin, and dawn’s first light illuminated only the tips of the pines. Meaning an early hour.

Thrashing side to side, she felt the sheets of their bed all bunching and crinkled up. Using her fists, Lyndy grasped onto anything she could. In the cold darkness, her vision was blurry. She could hear Kyle writhing on the floor in the fetal position. From the next room, the baby began to whine and cry, hearing the commotion.

Lyndy jumped out of bed into a fighting stance, ready to do battle with any lurking creature she could find. Funny part was, there didn’t seem to be any invaders in the room. Her head swiveled about, but the only other person was Kyle, in typical sleeping attire: boxers and a white under shirt. Her first thought was, “how did he fall out of bed?”

Through gritted teeth, he began to speak: “God damn you. You kicked me and threw me out of bed.”

Lyndy began feeling guilty.

“You kicked me right in the stomach.”

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” she exclaimed, rushing to the side of her boyfriend. Crouching down, Lyndy grabbed onto his shoulder in a panic. “Are you okay?”

He took a breath, letting it out slowly. “Somehow you pulled me sideways, flipped me and then thrust me against the wall.” Looking over to the wall, she could see he’d bounced off the decorative birch bark wainscotting. That stuff was not easily damaged.

“Is … is anything broken?” Reflexively she began checking him, feeling along his arms and legs for broken bones.

“What the hell got into you?” Kyle demanded. “You were having a bad dream. I simply reached over to comfort you.” He groaned, rolling onto his back out of the fetal position. Still, his eyes remained squinted shut.

Becky would never let this happen.

Lyndy sat up on her knees. She was in her sleeping shirt and panties. “Sorry.” She kissed him on the cheek though he was still writhing.

The baby’s cries became louder. Lyndy sniffed and instinctively changed her voice to a tone of tenderness and caring. “Want me to bring you ice?”

“No.”

“I feel awful. Are you gonna be okay?”

He nodded his head.

She pointed to the next room. “I’d better go comfort Maribel.”

“Getting my ass kicked by my girlfriend is one way to wake up,” Kyle lamented. “Not my favorite though.”

Lyndy frowned in shame.

By breakfast time, tensions at Fall River had cooled some. Mari was content watching baby cartoons. Kyle still seemed upset, and just a tad suspicious. He glared at her while spooning corn flakes into his mouth.  “What were you dreaming about?” he kept asking. But she couldn’t remember, except fighting was involved.

She wanted to ask him about the mystery glitter substance. Didn’t seem like the right time though.

Lyndy Life Observation: At one of the contracting companies where Col Rickman worked, someone left behind one of those gimmicky LED retirement clocks on their desk. If you’ve never seen one, it basically has an always-on display which counts down the days—stupid I know. Rickman punched in the year and month he anticipated retiring, and the thing reset to a number in excess of 5000 days! He said it was a real punch to his gut, ruining the rest of his week.

She felt a little uncomfortable whenever she backed Kyle’s Land Rover out of the garage and down the hill. Growing up in an East LA barrio, it never felt right driving a yuppie automobile—like she stole it. Aunt Rose had a silly saying. Whenever someone would offer them a ride in a fancy vehicle, she’d decline, explaining: “that’s much too nice for us.” And Lyndy remembered hating Aunt Rose for saying this. What kind of fool turns down a ride? However, now that she’d grown close to the same age when Aunt Rose had uttered those words, Lyndy began to understand. What she meant was, she didn’t want to get too used to riding in a fancy car, because it made you desire the same for yourself. One could easily catch a bad case of new car fever. And pretty soon you’d be in debt, paying through the nose for a car you really couldn’t afford.

But another part of Lyndy loved this road boat. The stately British auto had plenty of power, and you sat high in the seat like riding a war horse. It wasn’t even bad in mountain curves. It had some kind of suspension dampeners which adjusted to the twisting road.

Better yet, the steering wheel was wrapped in exquisite leather.

She had an excuse for driving it. It held more groceries, especially for those mid-week Costco runs. But more importantly, it had attachments for car seats. The 67 Mustang had no such. In the sixties you just kind of set the baby on its back, hoping for the best I suppose. All in all, the Mustang was a bit of a death trap. And while Lyndy didn’t mind death wish cars, she certainly wasn’t about to subject Mari to the same.

She could see Maribel snoozing in the back of the SUV whenever she adjusted the rear-view mirror. It had one of those spiffy CD players in the dash. (That’s a plastic-coated metallic disk containing tunes for you younger folks). But the only CDs in the SUV were Kyle’s, and she didn’t care for his taste in music.

She’d dressed in an outfit suitable for a mountain housewife. Something Helen Mason would approve of. This was key to her mission. Mom jeans, earrings and a Pendleton shirt with her hair neatly done up. But not too proper.

In Lyndy’s pocket, she had a color photo of Sabina.

First order of business: Crestwood Academy. She needed to appear like the type of mother who would send her kid to a private school. Which probably meant looking like someone who watched Martha Steward and cared. Driving the right kind of car helped, one box checked. The missing element would be the voice. It would be tough to hide her roots in East LA. For while Lyndy’s appearance was pure north Mexican beauty, her voice gave her away. She had the SoCal accent, largely influenced by surfer culture.

The school had been positioned on a slanting plot of land, terraced into three big levels in the rolling hills of Redlands.