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.”

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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.