Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-3

Lyndy Life Observation: At a fancy steakhouse in Tucson, Rita ordered a porterhouse and when it was delivered to the table, sizzling, her father intercepted the plate. He then spent five minutes meticulously slicing up the steak for Rita, before handing the plate back to her. Mind you, Rita was 32 years old at this time. I might have teased her, but secretly, I envied Rita because she had a dad who loved her.

She used to worry whether they could really do this together, be parents. Could they do it, raising a baby without marriage bonds? One of her 55 daily worries about life and the reason sleep eluded her.

In spite of everything a new hope swelled inside when Lyndy thought about Maribel. The loving way Kyle looked at her made her hopeful. Kyle handled all the nerdy stuff in life, like balancing the checkbook. Lyndy handled the grocery shopping and most meals. They functioned well together. They each had a favorite side of the bed and on a cold, lonely night Kyle reached for her, whispering her name in his sleep. Course their love life had always been passionate—the kind some women dream about. The reason women bought romances, something Rita Lovelace called: a gasoline and matches relationship. No complaints there. So, with the seed of love planted in their hearts, they had a shot.

Which brought her to this moonless night. Windows rolled down, a hot breeze blowing through her chestnut hair—speeding across the high desert in her 67 Fastback, wearing a tank top. Passing her old Route-66 haunts: The Vanishing Point, a legendary roadhouse joint where she once waited tables alongside her rival Catherine Cookson. The former site of Chan’s Bail Bonds, where she later worked as a private investigator, now an auto parts store. The Sunset Motel, where she lived on and off. Room number 22 had a kitchenette. The night club where she dealt illegal card games with bikers, late at night when she was bored.

She didn’t know what primal forces drew her here. Some kind of odd desert vortex. It was like the unquenchable urge to drink reposado tequila; you couldn’t shake it if you wanted to. The Mojave was like that. Haunting. Strangely attractive. She had the radio loud. The song Pink Cadillac playing on the stereo.

One good thing about this near 30-year-old classic car: no seat belt and no idiot lights on the dash compelling you to fasten one. Go right ahead and tempt fate.

If Becky Ellis was correct about one thing it was this. Lyndy E. Martinez would never be an SUV driving, soccer game attending, unnaturally skinny Lake Arrowhead mom. She’d never be the thing Kyle really needed. Boring. But that’s not why he loved her, nor what bonded them.

Somewhere up at the Arrowhead cabin Kyle and Maribel were sleeping soundly. But that was their Ellis nature. Mustangs needed to run. Beavers needed to build dams. Martinez’s needed to break things.

A short time later, she pulled into an open stall at the all-night truck stop. A few spaces away, an out of place Porsche Carrera lurking in a shadow. It meant Jackie Cordray was here waiting.

Initially she resisted Jackie’s requests to meet. She’d answered her at the Disneyland Hotel, a firm “no”. Informed her she couldn’t possibly work her old job anymore. Kyle would blow his top if he were to find out. She needed to focus on being a mom. So much for that.

Lyndy slid into the hard-sided booth opposite Jackie.

Over a basket of fries and two trucker-size Diet Cokes at the cafe, Jackie started to open up. “You’re a pretty girl, Lyndy,” she commented boldly, breaking a moment of awkward silence.

Lyndy chuckled, smiled bashfully, hating complements. Calling her a “girl” at this stage in life was something only a smooth-talking older adult like Jackie could get away with. From anyone else it would’ve been an insult. She studied Jackie’s face, learning what she could from her cues. There was something of an accent in Jackie’s words, an upscale, New Englander way of pronouncing them. And she reminded her of a woman who made their own decisions, not letting others, or a husband push her around.

“I think people expect me to be tougher looking,” replied Lyndy, shaking her head.

“Rita told me you had a half-dozen suitors spread across the county. They were lining up. So why aren’t you married?” asked Jackie innocently.

Lyndy winced. “Ay yai yai. For that I don’t have a logical answer.”

In the bright lights illuminating the diesel pumps, a diamond encrusted Cartier watch glinted on Jackie’s left wrist—the one supporting her chin—standing out to Lyndy cause even a well-to-do housewife wouldn’t own that model.

You could see the watch well as she chewed on her pinky nail. She was awaiting some kind of logical explanation.

“In my defense I was engaged once, to a handsome and hard-working deputy. Thought I had it all. After our relationship ended abruptly, I just … uh … never wanted to go through heartbreak again.” Those words stung to say aloud. “It was a bitter pill—going back to my shitty trailer felt like defeat. I had to get a job.”

Hoping to alleviate the awkwardness of her lifestyle, Lyndy snagged one of the French fries, dipping it in the paper cup of ketchup.

“I’m sorry,” said Jackie. “I shouldn’t have asked such a probing question. It’s rude of me.”

Lyndy shook her head, indicating it wasn’t taken in that vein.

“Anyhow, I hear there’s a great deal more to you than looks. Around town people call you The Spitfire.”

Lyndy nodded, tilting her chin to sip from her diet coke.

“I didn’t know, cause Rita Lovelace calls you Lyn or Lyndy,” Jackie explained. “The Spitfire—that’s like a nickname someone would give the outlaw in a western flick. Not many outlaws were women back in the day, so they became legends.” Jackie cleared her throat. “I also hear you have a knack for bringing powerful men to their knees.” Jackie leaned back, glancing to the door and to the kitchen, as if to check on anyone listening in.

Lyndy waited patiently, letting the complements soak in. “Well, now we’re talking,” she thought. “I like it when people help to spread around the folklore,” Lyndy replied. “It’s good for business.”

Jackie strained to breathe as she formed her next sentence. You could always tell a person going through grief by listening to their speech. Behind an outer shell of glamorous makeup, a heartache resided, eating her up inside. Lyndy knew before her telling that a child must be missing. Gone a long time now, the trail ice cold. Probably a hopeless case, the missing person deceased.

Steadying her nerves, Jackie swallowed hard.  “Cause I’m up against some very arrogant men.”

Reaching for the crumpled pack of Newports, Jackie snagged a smoke and stuck the filter between her lips. Squinting an eye, she lit her cigarette with a yellow Bic. Then she puffed a cloud to get it started, checking herself in the reflection of the windows at night. She allowed a puff of smoke to swirl in front of her face.

“When I first came to bloody state, I was pretty like you. And I thought highly of myself to match; like any other young actress in Hollywood. I was competitive, self-obsessed and I took some actions I now regret.” Jackie grinned proudly, glancing to the front entries, as if a photographer would walk in on them. “You probably wouldn’t recognize me, but I was a TV actress of some renown in the sixties and seventies. Appeared in westerns: Gunsmoke, Bonanza, Big Valley, stuff like that. I even hosted a game show. Lately I’ve been on soap operas. Not like, full on, household name level, but I did alright for myself. I’m mostly retired and life was good for any woman my age.”

Now that she mentioned TV, Lyndy thought she did recognize Jackie’s face as a minor Hollywood celebrity.

Jackie sniffed. She stiffened her back, rubbing with one hand while staring back at Lyndy. The corners of her eyes began to tear up. “Bet you haven’t heard this one before. I sold my first-born daughter when I was eighteen, for a mere four thousand dollars.”

The AC fans roared, even louder when a sweaty customer at the C-store opened the glass doors and crossed the threshold into the night.

“You’re right. That’s a new one.”

Jackie pulled a silk handkerchief from her purse and began dabbing her eyes. After a momentary pause, she continued, “Back then, it was certainly abnormal, but it happened. Infertile couples were desperate to adopt. Being focused on my acting I wasn’t ready to be a mom. I had a healthy baby girl and so a man at the hospital negotiated this deal. I made a choice. I traded being a mother for pursuing my career and lifestyle. By the time I snapped out of this dream, I had… come to regret it.”

Jackie shrugged. She tapped ash from her Newport into a green glass ash tray with the phone number for the truck stop on it. The way Jackie spoke of her relationship with her daughter was unnerving. Lyndy masked a tingling, an urge to shake it off—in part because it made her think of her own AWOL mother. And what Lyndy would say if the one who abandoned her ever came looking.

“When I had my next daughter—thank God for second chances—I promised to never make the same mistakes. I wanted to give her every opportunity. We paid for private school. She attends a prep academy high school, where a lot of other celebrities send their kids.”

“What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Sabina.”

“And she’s missing?”

Jackie nodded, almost unable to say that part aloud. “Eight weeks. Her car was found abandoned near the boundary of Joshua Tree National Park. Sabina was a part of this Desert Explorer’s Club in school, an extracurricular activity which I unfortunately encouraged her to join. Cause I thought it would be good for her confidence. She loves nature.”

“Which brings us to now,” continued Jackie. “My daughter is the only one in the group who didn’t return from an overnight trip to the park. The other students on the trip say they woke up in the morning and my daughter wasn’t there. Her tent was empty. No screams. Nothing out of the ordinary. Beyond those few answers—little bread crumbs—they won’t speak about it. Parent’s lawyers have gotten to the kids, warned ‘em not to talk.”

“What do the police say? What have they been doing for the past 8 weeks?” What Lyndy was thinking was: “why do you need me?”

“The park has been searched thoroughly, a good 2 or 3-mile radius of the campground. I’ve participated. So far nothing. They say they have to obtain her abandoned car to try and recover evidence. The bad part is, it was towed to a private impound lot, controlled by a 29 Palms tow company. No one can get to it.”

“What do you mean no one can get to it? Why can’t the police recover the car?”

Jackie grinned in the manner of someone bringing your attention to a hopeless situation which ought to be easy to solve. “It sounds crazy. But the police are afraid of these tow-truck operators. They won’t release any cars to the police.”

Lyndy raised both eyebrows. “The cops are afraid of them?”

Jackie nodded. “It’s called Godzilla Towing. I heard it’s controlled by the Russian mob.” With a subtle motion of her left arm, Jackie clawed the green glass ash tray toward her and began dabbing out her only one-fifth enjoyed cigarette.

“I’m sorry.”

Even though Lyndy was captivated by the conversation, she felt the need to interrupt. “Forgive me Miss Corday, but I’m going to jump ahead …”

“Call me Jackie,” Jackie replied. Clearly, Jackie could read the skeptical look on Lyndy’s face which said: this has like a one in a billion chance of a positive outcome. “Listen to me Lyndy. You know when you can feel someone is alive? I still feel her light. It’s not out. A mother can feel it.”

Lyndy eased back, letting her body slump in the formed bench seat with no meaningful cushion. Her heels spread to the side. She was thinking of Maribel.

That part at least was relatable

Lyndy placed a hand atop Jackie’s. “I’m going to say something and I don’t want you to take it personally. Assuming what you told me is true, at this point, there’s a cinder’s chance in snow your daughter is still of this world. If Mr. Chan were here, he’d call everything you’re wanting me to do a fool’s errand. But you’re a mother, and so I understand.”

Jackie paused a beat, then reached into her purse. The facts didn’t seem to have any impact on her resolve. It was a very Rita thing to do to send a desperate person her way.

“I have one clue, a letter,” Jackie asserted. “Hopefully more, when we can get our hands on her Jetta.”

Lyndy exhaled, shaking her head at the situation.

“Read this.” Jackie tossed a tattered envelope across the table. The letter contained within became amongst the saddest and most puzzling objects Lyndy ever held. The paper was ripped from a lined journal, written in the blocky all capitals style of a young person, pen indented deeply into the paper. The ink was black. An accompanying envelope had been stamped and mailed from San Bernardino, California, with no return address.

“Go ahead,” Jackie encouraged.

Lyndy gently unfolded it, smoothing the creases with her index and middle finger. One could almost feel the ghostly presence of the person who wrote it.

“MRS CORDRAY, I REGRET TO INFORM YOU YOUR DAUGHTER SABINA EXPRESSED A WISH FOR US TO REMAIN SILENT ON THE MATTER OF HER DESTINY. SHE WANTS YOU TO KNOW SHE’S GONE TO LIVE OUT HER DREAMS ON HER OWN TERMS. WHEN YOU THINK OF HER, PICTURE HER RIDING A BELTED KINGFISHER AMONGST THE STARS IN THE MILKY WAY. HER PAIN NO LONGER HAUNTS HER. SHE SPENT HER REMAINING TIME WITH US EXPLORING THE CANYONS, SHARING HER INNER SOUL AND FINDING HER TRUE SELF. THE SPOT WAS HER LITTLE GARDEN OF EDEN. RESEPECTFULLY, – TIGERLILY

Lyndy squeezed her chin. “Do you know anyone by that name, Tigerlily?”

“Tigerlily,” Jackie replied, with a bitterness. “An art Teacher. Marion Tigerlily Jones. She’s was the adult responsible for the trip. She sponsored the club.” Jackie gestured to the letter. “My daughter loved Kingfishers because they’re so colorful.” Jackie paused a moment then reached for a checkbook. “I can pay you 15 thousand.”

“Let’s say this letter is hinting at the fact your daughter doesn’t want to be found. Anyone in that state of mind is going to be very challenging to locate. I can’t believe I’m saying this … if you make it 20 thousand, I might ….”

“Fair.”

After a long pause, during which both parties were re-assessing their decision, Lyndy tossed out another question: “What else did Rita say about me? Anything?”

Jackie grinned. “She said you belong in Hell with anyone else who likes the taste of Tab cola.” That proved Jackie Corday had met Rita.

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30 minutes later…

Lyndy Life Observation: At the Rapid Lube changing oil on some guy’s mid-life crisis souped up Corvette, a fellow complements me: “Hey Lyndy, you look great. Did you lose weight?” I shake my head and reply, “Nope, just wearing my black jumpsuit today.”

Resting a hip against the rear panel, pumping unleaded fuel, she watched a distant thunderhead. Must’ve been fifty miles away or more, almost stationary on the horizon between the crest of two mountain ranges. Now and then the ethereal cloud shimmered and glowed like a lantern, pulsing with a heartbeat as lightning radiated within. The storm remained ever silent though, too far away to thunder.

Lyndy was the only person at the gas station. Even the attendant was MIA. All she could hear were trucks on the interstate, a low rumble.

Paying for fuel with the swipe of plastic card—a big step-up in convenience—Lyndy climbed into the driver’s seat. Twisting the metal key, pressing on the clutch, the 390 four-barrel rumbled to life with 300 horses. Or at least it had that new. She peeled out of town east toward Flagstaff. Here the western desert still ruled and so did the sixties muscle cars.

She twisted the chrome knobs on her radio, trying to remember which AM stations penetrated this no-man’s land. All she found were scratchy music stations surging in and out.

She should have been thinking about Jackie’s case, cause fool’s errand was putting it mildly. She should’ve been thinking about Kyle, the man who loved her—how he would hate what she was about to do next. Instead, she pondered Rita Lovelace. Why did Rita still send folks her way? Rita was the worst “best friend” a person could have. Why did she still think so highly of Lyndy’s abilities? Even when they were no longer on speaking terms.

At the exit for old Route 66, she turned off the interstate. Speeding through the night, the lights of Barstow far behind, her headlights became the only beacons in a sea of darkness. The ridges silhouetted against the stars, the only thing grounding one to the earth. She only passed one other car.

About a mile short of Amboy, she slowed her pace to a roll. In a spot marked by a dying salt cedar and a metal post, she veered onto the dirt driveway to her backcountry trailer. She could see it ahead in the distance, rarely visited now. The shiny outer skin of the airstream reflecting dimly in her headlights.

She didn’t need many things in that trailer hideout. She rarely visited the place now, and her once healthy collection of plants was a dying heap. Only the cacti survived.

Later, by the light of her low beams, she would recover the hidden milk jug buried here. Inside was the 1976 prototype Beretta pistol. That thing was untraceable.