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Valley Girl Part-21

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If you’re enjoying this story, and it’s not too much trouble, hit the “Like” so Lyndy knows you’re there. TIA! -ASC

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-21

Yosemite National Park, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: If Aunt Rose had a superpower, it was the ability to be in a sour mood nonstop for days on end. Rose Martinez hardly ever smiled, rarely spoke an encouraging word and possessed few other likable qualities. On the other hand, her tortillas were extraordinary. I could eat ten of those in one sitting as a teenager. And I can’t say I ever ate a homemade or restaurant style tortilla which could match hers for fluffiness, texture or overall taste.

No part of Lyndy’s body wanted to do a hike—not even her hair. Her skin was itchy. Her stomach grumbled for real food. Her shoulders ached, and every now and then pinched so that her whole neck contorted into a painful clench. She just wanted to crawl into bed. Given a choice of going on a strenuous hike or balancing her checkbook, she’d choose the latter.

Unfortunately, Neil had taken Mari hostage.

“You are the toughest woman I’ve ever met,” he encouraged, but Lyndy continued to grumble without responding. She folded her arms, dragging her feet as she moved.

The trail climbed a steep ridge beyond the sawmill, into a forest of new growth conifers. Ponderosa and Jeffrey pines, hardy incense cedar and some red firs populated the landscape. The understory was a mix of shrubs, huckleberry and heather. Bluebirds flitted from the lower branches, leading them away from their spring nesting sites.

In time, the clouds lifted and sunlight began to poke through, a vibrant yellow in the late afternoon. Beads of water glistened where they adhered to pine boughs and cones, reflecting the natural world into twisted spheres, making the trees sparkle as if they had tiny crystal ornaments attached. And though she wasn’t exactly thrilled, Lyndy began dwelling less on her misery, seeing things she’d not anticipated. Even the blades of grass and petals of a daisy held fresh dew.

The trees began to sway as a breeze picked up. She felt the chill of high altitude and it gave the skin on her arms goosebumps. It must have been a mile and a half in, judging by the passing of time, when they paused for a break.

There, Neil offered up baby Maribel.

At the time Lyndy was busy catching her breath, her palms flat upon her thighs.

“I’ll give you her, if you promise to keep walking behind me,” Neil warned.

Lyndy looked up to meet his piercing gaze. In reality, it wasn’t much of a choice. If she tried to flee, he could easily outrun her. He had longer legs, was better rested and knew the terrain. She’d never be able to outpace him back to the staging area. Exhaling, Lyndy reached out her arms, taking back her baby. Mari squirmed and Lyndy tucked her into the baby Bjorn, like a kangaroo pouch. The baby felt restless, not liking the motion and probably wanting to be fed.

Neil didn’t pause much longer. He turned to scramble higher.

After a few more minutes of trekking the slope began leveling off, and they reached a mesa-like flat zone. Here there was an opening in the canopy, fewer trees overall. She’d been watching her feet, concentrating on not stumbling, but when Lyndy next lifted her gaze, she was overcome by a child-like wonder. A rush of pure delight made her forget her troubles. Across a small stream stood a tree-trunk as big around as a grain silo.

The orangish bark with massive ridges and roots like elephant trunks, helped it seem even more fairy tale like. The settlers would’ve had a heck of a time describing this to their cousins back home. Sure, sure, just one tree branch as big around as a piano!

Lyndy leaned back to take in the scale, straining to spot the crown of the colossal tree. As she twisted her body, she noticed there were more giants towering in the distance. By a quick counting they numbered in the dozens. All she could do was marvel at the sight.

“That’s a sequoia!” she exclaimed, stating the obvious.

Mari’s eyes were doing that googly-eyed baby thing, trying to make sense of her surroundings. But Lyndy would’ve sworn the girl had a smile. In all her days, she’d not seen anything as wondrous. Lyndy looked to Neil. “How old are these trees?”

“This one? Easily, over 3000 years.”

Lyndy remembered the sawmill. “Wait, why would they leave these?”

“Two reasons. Firstly, the wood tends to be brittle for this species, and isn’t as good for building as you might think. But the other reason, is they recognized how special these trees are. They’ve been growing here since the last ice age. The men knew if they felled all the giant sequoias there would be none left for future generations to be in awe of, like us. They wisely set these aside, while logging the lesser trees.”

Neil beckoned Lyndy to hop the creek and make their way into the grove.

Twenty yards deep into the clearing he dropped to a seated position, like someone enjoying a picnic. Patting the soft grasses and pine needles, he pointed out the small wild daisies.

Hesitating, Lyndy paced a circle, afraid to sit down. But after a while, seeing how comfy he looked and that he wasn’t sinking into mud, she settled on a spot to take a rest. She folded her legs in a meditative pose. She glanced to Neil Conner, not deviating from her pouting seriousness. He gazed back making apologetic eyes. She wasn’t falling for that. She couldn’t shake her apprehensive thoughts, what might be happening in the valley.

After the exchange of looks, lacking words to express themselves they leaned back, resting their heads flat on a bed of pine needles. They gazed skyward together—baby and all—to the blueness and the unknown. Listening to the creaking of the upper canopy in the wind, watching the sky with its hints of high cirrus, breathing the cool air, Lyndy lost herself.  She felt Maribel gazing up too.

“You know what I was thinking about,” said Lyndy. “On the hike up.”

“What?”

“I was thinkin bout my mom. How I wasted so much time and energy being angry at her for abandoning me and my brother, leaving us with Aunt Rose and disappearing.” Lyndy sniffed. “Lately it occurs to me, she was what, 23 or 24 years old when she did that? What the heck did she know about life or parenting, or commitment? I didn’t have a kid til I was 40, and look at me. I don’t really know what I’m doing do I?”

Neil chuckled.

“You were right about something,” Lyndy managed.

“Bout what?”

“This is a nice spot,” Lyndy agreed. She sighed, contemplating for a good minute or two the sounds of nature—letting her heart soar.

She wasn’t sure whether she dozed off or not, but she’d been lost in a daydream when the sounds of twigs snapping, and the approach of heavy footsteps jostled them both to alertness. She sat up in a blink.

“DON’T MOVE AN INCH!” someone commanded. Gazing to the direction of the noise, she saw the profile of Ranger Brandt. He had his revolver trained on Neil.

Gradually, Neil raised both his hands, showing he wasn’t clutching a weapon.

Brandt’s eyes darted, seemingly aware of a partner nearby, covering him. It was Ruby, emerging from behind one of the enormous tree trunks. He’d been tracking too.

“Lyndy!” Neil complained, like a little kid who’d been caught stealing candy. He eyed her angrily. “How could you?”

“I didn’t do anything,” she argued.

“You didn’t lead them here?” Neil accused.

“No, I didn’t, I swear.” Should have thought of that though, she reasoned. Not like this little walk in the park was going to turn her onto his cause anyway.

“She didn’t lead us here,” Brandt confirmed. “We had a tracker on Kristen’s sedan.” Sheriff Ruby removed a set of handcuffs from his belt. “Get down on your stomach Mr. Conner,” he commanded to Neil.

Lyndy stood up, brushing off her ruined dress. “Watch out, he’s got a cattle prod. If he tries anything I can help take him.” Lyndy pushed back her hair. “What about the hotel? Is it still standing?” she wondered aloud.

“Of course,” answered Ranger Brandt.

Lyndy looked over at Neil, who had a guilty expression as he tilted his body forward. “Not for much longer,” he mouthed.

Next Lyndy locked eyes with Ranger Brandt. “We gotta move if want to save it.”

Coconino County, AZ 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: One afternoon at CBB I walk in to find Mr. Chan laughing like a hyena at the TV, almost falling out of his chair. It was unusual for him to genuinely laugh, especially during business hours. Upon investigating, a looney tunes cartoon was playing, the one where Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny are arguing whether it’s “duck season” or “rabbit season”. That is a classic.

It started innocently. Fred Simmons met Lyndy in the waiting area of the Flagstaff airport. Outside with the sun going down, lights in the parking lot were just blinking on. Lyndy had a big smile on her face and so did he. He had one overnight bag, his dapper suit jacket on and under his arm a box of genuine Mustang parts.

Holding the weathered box out—with its original faded label on the side—he presented it proudly as he rushed to meet her. “This is it!”

“My Ford is in my friend’s hangar. I brought it with me so we can work on it here.”

He’d not thought to question how Lyndy managed to drive onto the airport grounds, whether with a permit or some supposed friend working there. With the kind of woman she was, she presumably had connections. Of course, other cars like the fastback were parked on airport grounds, alongside the private hangars. Most of them were rich people who owned Cessnas.

Lyndy pushed through a beefy gate, which said authorized personnel only. He followed her into the closed area with the private hangars. Once there, she beckoned him into a side door for one of many steel buildings. The lights were out. Peering into the darkened room for any signs of the Ford, he felt two strangers—strong men—grabbing his arms and lifting his feet off the ground. A bag slipped over his head, and before he could yell or manage much of a resistance, he felt himself being rolled into something stiff like carpet.

The next thing Fred Simmons knew, he awoke in a wooden chair with his head face down on a tabletop. Restraints were tightly wrapped around his wrists and ankles, securing him to the chair. Straining to separate them was no use, as he discovered they’d been bound with zip ties.

The room was dim and quiet but he sensed he was not alone. An odor of ancient dust and juniper smoke permeated, tickling his nostrils. His eyes strained to focus in the darkness and he could see five outlines, statue-like figures seated across the room, opposite him on the floor. Their backs were resting against the stone wall, meditative style. He wished for it to be a dream, but it most certainly was not.

The floors were composed of something like packed clay.

Fred soon deduced he was sitting in an underground kiva, the coals at the center still smoldering and glowing orange. The other occupants were dressed in robes, but the curious thing is that each wore an elaborately constructed mask—ceremonial masks. The mask enclosed their heads, blocking their faces completely. As his eyes adjusted to the light of the coals, he could see they were canines: Two of the masks were larger, wolves with lighter whitish fur tones, whiskers and fuzzy ears. A pair of the figures were coyotes. The figure all the way to the right belonged to a smaller person, and the head was a fox with orangish fur.

“This is highly illegal,” declared Fred, lacking a cleverer response. “You all can’t do this. You can’t hold someone against their will. You’re in big trouble.”

No one responded. The fox-masked person on the far right stood up slowly, as if their joints were old and achy. The fox approached him, walking like a woman. Something like fresh creosote had been smeared across the coals, and this mixture began to crackle and pop, emitting a new powerful new aroma. At the same time a soothing, spacey Enya type music began to play from an unseen speaker.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the fox. The voice he recognized, had to be Lyndy Martinez. “We are gathered here today for an unusual but important reason. We are here to honor the legacy of an extraordinary woman, one great admirer of indigenous peoples and culture. In so doing, you will be taking a short quiz.”

“If this is about Gillian’s inheritance …”

The fox put up a hand. “Excuse me I’m talking,” she scolded.

“You guys can’t go around kidnapping people. I will report this.” But Fred’s mind began reeling with a vision of how exactly to report this unusual incident to law enforcement. The description alone would be hard to prove. On top of this, it was Lyndy whom he needed to strongarm into signing the affidavit—not the other way around. He could hardly accuse her of blackmail. “Where am I?” Fred demanded.

The fox turned its head gradually to the left and right. “A kiva,” she answered. The other canines hardly moved an inch, but he knew they were living. They watched him motionless, and it was unsettling not being able to read the reactions of a human face. Their wolf and coyote masks were unchanging. Every once in a while, he swore he could see their eyelids blinking above their snouts, in tiny holes cutout for the eyes.

“Well, what do you want? I already offered you a third share of the fortune. Do you want more? You’ll never be able to spend it all. That’s about 300 million.”

“We are gathered here to honor the spirit of Rita Lovelace. A woman, who I promise never did anything for the money if it meant being dishonest.”

“How is this an honor?” Fred strained against the plastic bindings. He squirmed in the chair, but it made him feel weak knowing he was trapped. He felt himself sweating.

“We are taking a quiz,” answered the fox.

“Okay. Fine. What kind of test?”

The fox cleared her throat, having paused halfway across the room. “Today’s quiz will be titled: How well do I know Rita Lovelace?” Sweetness infused her tone; in ways he’d not remembered. Lyndy Martinez, in spite of her reputation and some years of smoking, still had a youthfulness in her voice. “Don’t worry, it’s multiple choice. You won’t have to conjure anything from scratch.”

“Fine. Fine. I’ll take the quiz. What does it prove though?”

“It proves whether you were wedded to Rita Lovelace. Like you say. If that’s true, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Fred exhaled, hating himself for having been tricked. He hadn’t thought she’d do this, as Lyndy seemed so earnest when she met him at the airport. “I suppose if I get the answers wrong, you won’t be signing the affidavit.”

The fox didn’t directly answer, instead offering, “Everyone on our panel has a copy of the quiz, with correct responses marked. That way there’s no funny business.” She unfolded a sheet of stationary, something a wedding invitation might come printed on. The fox cleared her throat. “As we know Rita was born in Phoenix, her father a businessman and her mother a model. What famous woman was Rita named after? A. Rita Moreno. B. Rita Coolidge. C. Rita Rudner. D. Rita Hayworth.”

Fred sniffed, trying not to sneeze at the dust and drifting creosote smoke. “Some of those are too young,” he muttered. “Gotta be Rita Hayworth.”

“That’s right,” answered the fox excitedly. “Cha-Ching.”

“This is stupid,” Fred complained, straining again to adjust his stance, as his frame was bent sharply against the table. He felt his eyes tearing up from stress. “Let’s hurry up.”

The Enya music was maddening in this environment.

“Chompin at the bit, I see. We’ll move on.” The fox cleared her throat again, circling around the fire pit and pacing to the left side of the kiva. She stared down at her slip of paper, though she must’ve known what was coming in advance. “Rita had a lifelong passion for horsemanship, along with western culture. She was a talented rider and raised foals on her ranch in Tucson. What was the name of Rita’s all-time favorite horse. I’ll make it easy, cause Rita loved mares. A. Akrivia. B. Shimmer. C. Nightfall. D. Sunset.

Fred exhaled sharply. He shook his head, then let it droop on the table.

“I’ll give you another hint. There’s a grave marker with this mare’s name chiseled upon it, where she spread her ashes.”

“Fine. It’s B. She liked weird names.”

The fox shook her head plainly. “That’s wrong.”

“I don’t care. Give me another one. We never talked about horses. It would’ve been too painful.”

“For the record it was Nightfall. Okay. Moving on. Rita had a good head for business, owning several art galleries among her other ventures. She valued one quality in an employee above any other. A. Loyalty. B. Results. C. Ability to generate profit. D. Intelligence.”

“I dunno, loyalty.”

“That’s an important one, the root of many future problems.”

“What do you mean?”

“I promise you; in no way did Rita value loyalty.” The fox paced to the opposite side of the firepit, moving away from the drifting smoke.  “Moving on. What annoying habit did Rita have after drinking to excess? A. Removing her clothes. B. Throwing up. C. Fighting. D. Dancing with strangers.”

“This is stupid.”

“What’s your answer?”

“Oh, I don’t know. She didn’t drink with me; she’d given it up. I guess B. Throwing up.”

Without words, the fox shook her head. “It’s A.”

“This is so stupid,” Fred repeated, impatience boiling over. “You’re missing out on the big picture. There’s nearly a billion dollars at stake and you would rather play games?”

“This last question is so important it’s worth two points, like a lightning round. You’re still in the game and can tie it up, if you get this right. At a fancy outdoor wedding in Malibu, Lyndy Martinez and Rita Lovelace had their last and final falling out. Lyndy was expelled from the wedding, fired from her job at Lovelace Corp. and Rita cruelly cutoff all communication. They never exchanged one single word again. What embarrassing incident at the wedding precipitated this last straw event: A. Lyndy made out with a stranger in a catering tent. B. Lyndy was drunk and ranting about politics. C. Lyndy pants’ed the groom. D. All of the above.”

A sound of girlish laugher filled the kiva, one of the coyotes breaking character. The high voice meant the coyote was another female, but younger. Perhaps both the coyotes were female, Fred reasoned.

The wolves looked at her and she quickly regained composure.

“What’s yer answer?” demanded the fox.

Fred inhaled nervously.

“D. All of the above,” said Fred.

“Oh my god,” lamented the fox, dropping her arms to her sides and shaking her snout. “How poor is your opinion? Admittedly, Miss Martinez had been drinking that day. And this led to teasing, as she and the groom knew one another. For some reason, not having any foresight, Lyndy immaturely decided to prank the groom. Rita witnessed it—leading to the most awkward wedding moment ever. If she could go back in time, it’s the one thing Lyndy would change.”

The same coyote began to cover a laugh, but still did not remove its mask.

“So, what. I got it wrong? You didn’t do all those things?”

“Very wrong. In fact, you only got one question correct overall.”

“So, what now? You’re not signing? You’re crazy!” Fred seethed in anger. “For Pete sake, all this cause I didn’t know you pants’ed a dude at a wedding? Big deal. Rita over-reacted.”

Both coyotes stood up, moving toward the fox. They linked arms, standing on either side of the fox. “There isn’t anyone in the Lovelace firm who didn’t later know that happened. It was absolutely legendary, obviously a bad decision. We were getting wine at the reception, surrounded by a dozen people. Lyndy tried to apologize over and over. But Rita wouldn’t have it … Rita shouldn’t have cut all ties and never spoken to her for the rest of their lives. After all the times Lyndy saved her and all the experiences they shared as best friends. Rita was wrong too. Rita did not value loyalty. Everyone knew that.”

“I’m sorry Rita did that to you,” grumbled Fred.

“No, you’re not.”

“Well, what now?” Fred scanned the room. A chill ran through him. “What now? What about the money? We need to lock up that deal.” He tried to kick the table with his knees, but they were bound too tightly. He struggled to free himself, letting out a groan when this final act of defiance failed.

The fox touched fingers upon the fur along her snout, then patted them in a circle below her ears. Fred wondered whether Lyndy were about to remove the mask. But she did not.

“I’ve been told, I’m getting a facial,” answered the fox.

Fred came to later that day on a bench, in front of the airport.

Valley Girl Part-16

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-16

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: The north-eastern outskirts of Barstow were home to a popular nudist resort and every year they held a contest called: “Mister and Miss Nude”. It was a beauty pageant you might say, except obviously no evening wear—or any wear. You can’t make this up; it really happened. As a joke someone suggested Deputy Keynes should enter the contest and he said he’d only agree to do it on the sole condition I, Lyndy E. Martinez, participate in the female category. I politely declined. In retrospect, one of The Spitfire’s wisest life choices.

In any conflict where one is outnumbered and outgunned, Mr. Chan used to advise, whomever is more frightened is the one who is losing. Over time, she’d come to internalize this saying as one of his finest commentaries. Except by this measure, Lyndy Martinez was actually losing the battle. No point in ignoring reality.

On the other hand, she intended to flip that script. Age and lack of consistent training had made her muscles tight. She had to account for the fact her kicks packed less force behind them, as did her punches.

Lyndy’s opponent, six-foot man dressed as a lumberjack with two days beard growth, kept a watchful eye while pacing a half circle. A sneer curled on his lips, when he witnessed her discarding the pistol cartridges. He exhaled from his nose.

Calmly, he wiped his bloodied palm on the front of his blue jeans, applying pressure as if his open wound bothered him. He refused to look down, instead raising his fists in the manner of boxer. Using his knuckles he wiped his eyes, all while continuing his arc-like pattern of movement, sizing her up.

Lyndy clenched her fists, but kept them posed nearer to her sides. “At least someone is taking me seriously,” she thought. She shifted to her right, placing more weight on the ball of her foot, maintaining a loose stance.

The rush of the swelling river filled the auditory environment to the point of squashing all background, including traffic on the busy road. She welcomed the sound which helped to filter pain and center her thoughts. Without it, the pounding headache from the bee stings would’ve been far too distracting.  

“I ought to warn you, I used to box in prison,” the man proclaimed loud enough to overcome the roaring river. “Don’t test me.”

“Great. A 130-pound new mom should be a breeze,” replied Lyndy. “Why don’t you come over here and subdue me,” she challenged. “Dare you,” she thought.

He gazed at her with a mix of amusement and caution. The man was keeping a healthy distance of twenty feet, almost the whole width of the flat rock.

Lyndy felt her heart pounding, but she consciously steadied her breathing. Now was not the time for panic. With her feet free of the boots, she let her toes find the best footing—the grip surprisingly firm on the granite top and far preferable to the leaf covered slopes.

Her opponent raised his fists to protect and cover his chin, so high they almost blocked his eyes. Kind of an old school style as he started closing in. He was wearing big waffle stomper type boots, the black ones.

He had decent reach in his arms, evident as he threw a test punch. Then leading with his shoulder, he threw a much more forceful blow, which Lyndy side-stepped. Bending at the hips, the punch swooshed past her cheek.

He’d come so close she caught a glimpse of his blue eyes.

The attacker quickly recovered, pivoted to his left, ducked and fired off an uppercut. Again, she felt the whoosh of air, as she dodged out of the way. This time, facing away from him, she bent at the waist and scissor kicked. The ball of her foot impacted his rib, and it felt like she’d impacted one of those leather bags in the gym. The strike sent shock waves through her bones. His body was hard and heavy.

Completing the turn, she faced the man again. He backed up, having felt the impact in a way that stunned him.

She’d earned his respect.

“That was a solid hit,” he grunted. The fellow glanced over one shoulder, as if hoping for one of his buddies to show up. But no one did.

He thumbed his brow, where sweat was accumulating and then started bouncing his knees again. Lyndy maintained concentration, the noise of the wild river helping her. Inside her heart she could feel Maribel, knowing the baby was safe in hiding.

Abruptly the radio crackled to life with static. Both their eyes were drawn to it. “Tommy, you there? Tommy you there? Check in.” The voice was a female, met by silence.

The attacker, whose name she presumed was Tommy, shifted his gaze between the radio lying uselessly on the rock, and Lyndy. After twenty seconds of dead air the voice returned: “…checkpoints are active at all 3 Park entrances. No one’s seen Kristen or the stroller mom.”

“Stroller mom?” thought Lyndy. That’s all they got?

The radio went dead again.

Tommy seemed to have regained composure, now on the opposite side of the flat stone. This time Lyndy’s back was toward the river. The fellow began advancing again, working a small arc but throwing out a test jab or two. Probably wanted to get to the radio.

In a flurry of punches, he came at her again, hoping to overpower The Spitfire. This time she dove under his arms, and while crouching, pivoted to sweep out his calves. His momentum carried him forward while she moved her core to the side. The force of her kick caused him to pitch onto one knee, but he quickly recovered. Meanwhile Lyndy jumped back up in a blink, turning to face him. He threw another punch which landed on Lyndy’s shoulder, so quick and forceful she’d not had time to move.

With his left arm, he tried to hook onto her waist.

Lyndy squirmed out of his grip, twisted his fingers and forced him back. The good part was, now the man faced the river again.

Only a foot or two separated the pair, and Tommy thew his upper body onto her with the intention of wrapping himself around her arms. This being the one move she’d hoped for, Lyndy extended her arms, caught the fellow’s grip and used every ounce of strength to swing him. He was exceptionally heavy. The move strained her shoulders, but she worked with his momentum. Then jumping up, she kicked with both feet against the man’s chest.

Landing on her tailbone, Lyndy caught a glimpse of his shocked expression—a this can’t be real look—as Tommy was hurled backwards off the side of the slab. He kicked his feet, but with only a split second in air, he plunged into the icy river. The angry Merced swallowed him like a vortex. His mouth opened, but no words escaped that Lyndy could hear, as he was whisked like a floppy scarecrow into the swirling current. His head disappeared soon after, caught in an undertow by the churning eddies.

Extending her fingers, Lyndy rubbed her lower back. “Ouch,” she grumbled, as she sat up. She snapped at the straps of her VS bra; one had come loose in the fight, falling across her left shoulder. “Damn, I hate this push-up bra. It’s so uncomfortable,” she complained. Leaping to her feet, she took a peek over the side, gazing into the mesmerizing liquid.

Floating atop the water—the only item of note—was a single bluebird tail feather. It floated past in a series of figure eights, then catching the main flow zipped away with astonishing haste. Remembering where and who she was, Lyndy darted back to the spot she’d hidden Maribel, praying to God nothing happened to the gift she treasured more than anything in the world.

Yavapai County Arizona, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: At a late-night family dinner Dr. Kyle Ellis—with the table lit by candles—was challenged to name all six of his children’s eye colors solely from memory. The only one he knew for sure was Maribel, who has brown eyes same as me. Apparently, his wife was greatly annoyed by this.

The aroma from the Lucha-Libre taco truck could attract crowds like a pied piper. Its fame spread across the land the old-fashioned way, word of mouth with a tailwind of modern social media. If not this, its colorful displays of Mexican wrestlers locking arms in a ring, wearing masks, made it stand out from the highway like a parade float.

Lyndy could attest to their food being delicious, possessing a smoky flavor.

Standing in a twenty-person queue, Lyndy experimented with her glasses, trying them at distances of 15, 12 and 6 inches away from her nose. She even tested various angles of pitch. Yet none enabled her to focus enough to decipher the specials on the chalkboard. Using an elbow she nudged Catherine, who seemed entertained by this comedy act.

Clearing her throat, Blondie read the handwritten specials aloud, saving Lyndy further embarrassment. She had to shout, overcoming their blaring Ranchera tunes. Eventually Lyndy settled on her favorite, carne asada.

All the best picnic tables were taken as usual, so the pair paced a few more blocks to a playground located behind a church. This prime spot was shaded by mature birch trees and presently free of children. On the way they passed century old mansions of the pueblo and craftsman style, all custom and well above the million-dollar mark.

Lyndy tested out the empty swing set, making sure it would hold weight and the seat seemed comfy enough. Catherine took the swing alongside, but being among the world’s quickest eaters, she was finished with her quesadilla already.

“Wanna ride to Costco later? I have a list of stuff I need for my new place.”

“I’m in,” replied Lyndy, with a mouthful of food. They’d already been discussing various excuses to get together once Cathy got settled in her home. “I’ll even drive.” She knew her friend hated to drive.

Exhaling a bored sigh, Catherine thumbed through selfie images on her phone. “Lyn, I never expected this day to come,” she lamented. “But I look like an older Peg from Married with Children.”

Lyndy chuckled. “Count your blessings. Peggy was a babe.”

Not needing to read anymore, The Spitfire shoved her trifocals atop her head. The outside world returned to a relaxing fuzz she’d been accustomed to—like one of those movies where they smother Vaseline on the lens. Straightening her elbows, she pressed against the swing set chains to exercise her grip. “Al was just haunted by his own poor choices,” added Lyndy.

Cathy made one of her snort laughs. “True,” she muttered.

Lyndy dribbled red salsa onto her tacos before taking another bite.

“Other day I thought this guy was flirting with me. I was proud of myself, until it turned out he was trying to pitch me on a timeshare membership.” Reaching for her soda cup, Catherine snapped her phone case shut, shoving it in the outer pocket of her purse. “Which reminds me, who’s this dude you flew on a private jet to see in Santa Barbara?”

Salsa juices were dripping down Lyndy’s chin on both sides, like a messy vampire after feeding. She quickly wiped with a napkin, but her mouth was full.

Catherine sipped diet coke from a foam cup excessively, causing her to burp like a trucker. She tapped her watch at Lyndy, while her expression continued to ask: “You gonna answer me, or no?”

Lyndy continued to grin. “Look, serious question. Given your experience with Maribel to date, do ya think she bears any resemblance to her mom and dad?”

Cathy frowned. “Are you joking or something?”

Lyndy shook her head sternly as she swallowed. “I need to know.”

“Oh my god, of course! It’s obvious,” Cathy exclaimed. “From the moment we met. She’s the perfect blending of you two creeps.” Lyndy smiled at the insult, while Cathy continued, “She’s got your same passion, toughness and well, how to put it … sex appeal. This combined with Kyle’s cautious and inquisitive nature. She’s got some Spitfire in there.”

Rather than reply with words, Lyndy replied with an utterance: “Mmmm.”

“On the other hand, I have a big issue with your daughter’s taste in men. But that’s for another day. We should talk about it though.”

Lyndy nodded. “We’re in agreement. It’s hard for me to judge. My credibility and all.”

“And the tattoos. The piglet tattoo?” Cathy rolled her eyes.

“Mari has a tattoo?” Lyndy pretended to be surprised, but Catherine saw through the sarcasm.

In the distance, wild sunflowers had taken over a vacant lot where a Victorian mansion once stood. Cathy sipped from her foam cup while staring at the view. “Why are you asking if Maribel bears a family resemblance?”

Lyndy bobbed her head side to side, while taking another bite which included those spicy pickled carrots that make one salivate. “I happened to meet up with Rita’s … uhm … daughter. Self-proclaimed, mind you. Her name is Gillian Lovelace.”

Catherine blinked her eyes, using her arms to twist the swing so it faced Lyndy’s in a melodramatic gesture. “WHAT?” Miss Cookson pretended to turn up the volume on a set of imaginary hearing aids.

“I know. Shocking, right? Hard to believe. It’s like Rita brought herself back to life just to haunt and embarrass me. That’s why I was in Santa Barbara.”

“What’s she like? Does she look like her mom?”

“In some ways, yes. She’s about the weirdest human you’ll ever see. I’m talking weird with a capital W!”

“You and Rita were besties,” Catherine remarked in a mocking tone. “As far as I know, Rita only had one friend. That was you. Why did you two spit up? What was the tipping point?”

“I call it our breakup.” Lyndy turned to meet with Cathy’s stare. “You really don’t know do you?”

Cathy shook her head.

“Admittedly, we were in the throes of alcoholism. Shit bar that was five miles from Rita’s ranch shoulda had a plaque with us two on it for saving their lease.”

Catherine covered her mouth to chuckle discretely.

“No, it’s alright. You’re allowed to laugh at that.” After patting Catherine on the back, she continued. “Separating was the best thing for us. We were healthier for it.”

“The throes of anything are never good.”

“Yeah. Very true. The final straw, you might say, occurred at a lavish outdoor wedding where I was in charge of security. Almost the entire Lovelace company was in attendance. Everyone witnessed her screaming at me that day.”

“Geez, what the heck did you do? Seduce the groom?”

Lyndy shook her head, refusing to fill in the details.

“I don’t think Rita ever mentioned wanting kids,” added Cathy. “Ya know what I mean? Specifically, wanting kids.” Then she started swinging, extending her feet so she could gain amplitude like a little kid. She got going so fast, the wind caught and blew her dress up some, exposing the spanx on her thighs.

Lyndy pondered telling her friend about the big inheritance money, but she knew Catherine wouldn’t understand. The waitress would advise not to take it—cause like her father, she wasn’t motivated by money. A part of Lyndy believed that answer. That part was her gut.

Valley Girl Part 15

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Wonderful Roberts chrome. Excellent print quality and contrast. Maybe 1969? Would sell this one. -ASC

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-15

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Unlike so-called snowbirds, Rita spent most of the year in Tucson, Arizona, a quirky frontier town she famously described as inserting your head into a pottery kiln. But consider this, two-thirds of her sports cars didn’t possess any type of factory AC. Nor did my ride, the white Mustang. If a car you wanted to drive had leather upholstery, you literally had to put down beach towels to avoid second degree burns. God forbid you forgot the towels, wearing a bathing suit or a tank top. Just the sweat beading atop your skin made you stick to the seats like an octopus tentacle.

Lyndy awoke to a quiet, sickening feeling. It wasn’t hunger.

Mari was crying less, resisting less, her vocals reduced to whimpers. She knew it meant the baby was fatigued and growing weaker.

Humming her pretend lullaby, Just One Look, The Spitfire changed out the icky diaper for her one spare. This time the catchy tune felt grim, as did the moment.

Squeezing pressure on her eye sockets with her fingers, Lyndy contemplated her next moves. She inhaled a steady, deep breath. Putting aside the grumbles of an empty stomach and the immediate hazards, something bold was evolving inside: a powerful shift between mother and baby.

Tendrils of an eternal bond were reaching through the black void to merge. Where they met, they began to pulse with energy, intertwine and strengthen.

Holding Mari up, she kissed her sweetly on her little nose. Then Lyndy brushed her soft curls against Mari’s cheeks, eyes squinted shut, on purpose to stimulate the baby. Mari gurgled in response. She could feel Mari’s breath and heartbeat, but also her emotional state. An invisible link. Lyndy opened her brown eyes, gazing deep into Mari’s. “I feel you,” she mouthed. “I can feel you now,” she repeated in elation.

It was the tiny victory she sought from day one, back in the place where waters from Yosemite and all the other unnamed falls merged into a torrent.

The baby rotated her head to one side. “Mommy is coming back,” Lyndy spoke softly into Mari’s ear, her lips an inch away. “I promise.” Then she snuggled her up in the ruined dress like a baby blanket.

The Spitfire slid backwards, feet first from her bear’s den hiding spot into the frosty morning. Long shadows stretched across the gorge and one could smell drifting smoke from a chimney or two. Due to adrenaline in her veins, she hardly experienced the cold. As Lyndy was sliding, she sneakily palmed a jagged rock. Twisting her hips until she faced up, Lyndy tucked her feet under, then with three fingers pressed herself to a standing position.

Gradually lifting her chin, her gaze fell upon the lone gunman. In one hand he gripped a pistol, wrist twitching nervously because he was young. She raised both arms in submission. A smug look indicated he was proud for having discovered her. The man with longish hair, had a walkie-talkie clipped on the tactical belt at his hip. He must’ve warned his buddies but The Spitfire didn’t care, as it would make it easier to find them too.

With her arms raised, Lyndy still had her fingers clenched tightly on the stone.

“Put that down,” he said firmly, lifting the pistol at his hip to aim at her torso. “You and the baby don’t have to get hurt. We need to bring you to Charlie. That’s all.” He pushed his greasy hair back using his free hand. “Charlie will explain.”

Lyndy closed her eyes, knowing she’d only get one shot at this. She hadn’t been the best at softball, but she prided herself on uncommon abilities with ski-ball and those pop-a-shot arcade games.

“Let it go,” reiterated the gunman.

With a hard flick of her wrist, she hurled the rock skyward on a trajectory impacting the beehive. As she did so, Lyndy dove for the earth, expecting he would squeeze his trigger. The slope was steep and covered in slippery leaves. She began sliding downward on a course for the assailant.

Puzzled, the man with the pistol gazed upward, wondering what Lyndy had hit.

In the blur of a hot few seconds, came a nerve-wracking intermission. Luckily, the rock penetrated the hive like a missile, cracking the lower section and causing a portion of it to dislodge. Gooey honey dripped out, raining upon them. As it was pre-dawn, most inhabitants had been sleeping. But the interlude was short-lived. With astonishing ferocity, the winged insects began swarming their damaged home.

The standing assailant started swatting with his free hand, naturally the worst way one could react. All around the air was filled with loud buzzing. Lyndy did nothing in response to the bees, accepting that stings were inevitable. And now he was sidetracked.

Rising up, Lyndy pivoted on a heel, kicking with her toe to smack loose the pistol. Her intention had been to impact the man’s wrist, but this tested the limits of her reach at a disadvantaged angle—thus her toes only brushed the muzzle. It was enough to throw off his aim. His finger slipped the trigger. He made a motion as if to fire but nothing happened, as he’d not applied adequate force.

Lyndy touched her heart, pressing her fingers on her chest as if to feel for an invisible entry wound. His attention turned back to the fight and he re-acquired his grip, as well as his aim. In the meantime, The Spitfire went back into a spin kick posture, this time executing it on firmer footing. She landed the outside edge of her bare foot on his elbow, sending the gun flying. Next, she changed up her stance, finding a thin ledge from which to make a front kick.

The man continued to swat the bees. This time Lyndy executed a full front kick to his chin, though it hurt her big toe. The knock—worthy of the “All Valley”—caused the man to fall to his knees in a daze, while Lyndy was sent into a tumble. She lost balance completely, catching herself on her left wrist, unfortunately the injured one. Her body collapsed under the strain and she rolled.

By now the bees were everywhere, a cloud of constant attacks, slamming into their faces and eyes. She was even questioning her own judgement. The man rose up, knowing Lyndy was down and trying to win the upper hand. He managed to kick Lyndy in the ribs, sending her further away down the slope. Scrambling back to higher ground, he tried to locate his gun in fallen leaves. This task was near impossible, as the man kept having to slap at his bare arms and neck where bees were stinging by the dozens.

He cursed loudly.

Lyndy could feel them landing on her back and thighs too; the stings were maddening. But she scrambled to her feet, climbing higher to meet the attacker head on. Charging him with a head butt to the stomach, she rammed him into rocks. As he attempted to block her and push back, Lyndy extended her arms, pushing his fists away, then with her good arm knocked him in the chin. Lastly, she kicked off a rock, jumped up and brought her elbow down with max force on the base of his skull. He went down hard, not unconscious but close.

On the ground the fellow rubbed a hand wildly over his swelling face, scraping angry bees away from his eyelids. He knew he’d lost and seemed acquiescent. “The bees …” he muttered, grimacing and catching glimpses of Lyndy’s face.

Lyndy caught her breath, standing in the glow of the rising sun.

“The b-b-b-bees …” the man stuttered, rolling onto his back as if to die.

“I’ve noticed them. So what?” asked Lyndy.

“They’re … they’re stinging you too.”

“Where are your partners?” Lyndy demanded.

The fellow winced. “I dunno …. close … the river’s edge.”

“Good.” Lyndy squinted her eyes, brushing a dozen stingers from her bare neck and chest. She spotted the barrel of the gun, sticking out from a tuft of green moss. “If you survive, I want you to give a message to Charlie.” Lyndy stooped under a tree limb to retrieve it.

“What?” asked the man, gasping for air.

“Tell him he has a choice. Leave me alone and never speak of this.”

“Or?”

She leaned over to rescue the gun from the dirt, blowing on it to remove the moss. The bees were still swarming, but their stings were bothering her less. “Or, if he truly wishes to see me, then keep fighting and I’ll come for him. I’m The Spitfire.”

The fellow only chuckled, in the way of someone who believed her. Then he lowered his chin as a man preparing to die.

Minutes later …

The Merced River, undammed here and swollen with April thaw, thundered over and around boulders with the force of big waves crashing upon a rocky shore.  

This allowed The Spitfire to slip through the tangle of willows and oaks lining the shore, unnoticed. The nearby park road, busy with tourist traffic, made it harder to be stealthy, as scant margin separated the road’s edge and the course of the river. It was the kind of narrow mountain highway which flooded often, but being a natural point of entry it’d been constructed nonetheless.

With each step her feet were sinking to the ankle bone in marshy soil, a spongey muck threatening to swallow Kyle’s boots. She wasn’t at her best. Lyndy’s vision was clouding at the periphery and her balance was off too, no doubt a result of the bee stings. Yet she felt stronger in a way she couldn’t quantify.

She recognized the second attacker by his jacket from the night before, crouching upon an enormous granite boulder with a flat top. This remnant of a decades old landslide jutted into the main channel, making the river flow deeper and more treacherous.

By his stiff stance and lumberjack attire, anyone would know the man was not a tourist. She observed him like a cautious animal for a few minutes. She had the baby on her chest, but Mari was playing possum now, entirely mute. Only the slow rhythmic breathing let Lyndy know the baby was alive.

This fellow was bigger than the last. Compared to the previous fellow, he looked like was pushing 43. So, of similar age. Standing tall, he repeatedly paced the square rock, moving near the edge then coming closer to the shore. As she watched, he brought his radio to his mouth, asking for someone to check in. No responses came.

Having flicked between 75 and 100 stingers off her skin, The Spitfire knew she looked like she’d marched straight out of a zombie apocalypse. Her expensive dress was absolutely in shambles. Still, this was no fashion show.

Bending down, Lyndy laced together a few long twigs, forming a crude and misshapen basket. Atop this she put down leaves and pine boughs, then rested Mari in this makeshift crib. She worked swiftly, putting a finger to her lips, mouthing: “Quiet.”

With a load off Lyndy climbed over the rocks into the daylight.

He caught her moving from a distance of 20 yards, lowering his radio to his feet. He was fumbling, reaching to his hip for his holster.

Lyndy raised her right hand to waist level, holding the gun from before, a smallish 32 caliber R51. The taller man’s demeanor changed, seemingly judging whether she had any chance of tagging him at such a distance. He tilted his head, then raised his hands to about shoulder level.

“This Charlie fellow, he’s some kind of conservationist? Am I correct?” demanded Lyndy, loud enough to be heard above the river.

The lone man took a couple of steps back, nearer to the water’s edge. Making sure he wasn’t about to fall off, he kept checking behind. He nodded as he did so.

“Why does Charlie need the code so bad?”

An amused smile formed on her opponent’s face. He reached for his waistband, but Lyndy squeezed her trigger first. Her gun made a pop and a rip opened in the fellow’s jeans, blasting his piece out of his waistband. The weapon he’d been concealing flew back off the edge, into the water. The fellow collapsed to one knee, putting a hand over his thigh.

“ARRRRGH. Son of a … you hit my hip,” he groaned. Raising his hand, he saw blood.

“Why does he need this code?” repeated Lyndy. “Are more of you coming?”

The fellow was wincing, staring at his radio. He wanted to call for help.

“Just answer me!” she demanded. She began closing in, stepping gingerly up and over a series of boulders. She kept her gun aimed at the opponent.

“Gloria got picked up by the Feds,” groaned the fellow, throwing his head back. “She was supposed to supply a four-digit code to Kristen.” Grimacing, he forced himself into a standing position, facing Lyndy.

He was one tough dude she’d give him that.

Lyndy paused to think. “What is the code for? Does it arm the device?”

The fellow shrugged. “Not sure,” he answered through gritted teeth. “I guaranty more are coming. Maybe lots more. He wants that number.”

“How can you be sure?”

“There’s a price on your head. 75K to the one who brings you in.”

“Eeesh! He’s acting like a terrorist, not a man who cares about the Earth.” Lyndy scrambled up one side and then down a tent-shaped rock. She weaved round a jammed log, then sprang over a crack with gushing whitewater below. She never let go of the pistol. “Where is the second device?” questioned Lyndy, pushing her body up onto the flattish stone the man occupied. This placed the two roughly fifteen paces apart.

“I don’t know what you mean?”

“Two models of the dam were made. One is in the hotel. Where is the other?”

Judging by his pained expression, it seemed genuine he didn’t know.

“I’ve got one more thing to say to you.”

“What?”

Casually, Lyndy popped the magazine, then pulled the slide on the gun spilling all the bullets on the ground. She casually tossed it into the deepest part of the river. Getting into a fighting stance, she added: “Sorry you won’t be collecting your reward.”

Santa Barbara, CA 2010s

She’d not ridden in a car with heated seats for as long as she could remember. When the Range Rover pulled around, a rear door flung open. Gillian was riding shotgun. Fred helped Lyndy up, then scooted in beside. Once inside he commanded the driver to “Punch it,” knowing he didn’t want to get into a spat with SB PD. The suspension was plush but modern, and the SUV glided with precision over primitive country roads.

Hastily, Lyndy checked that she had everything, including her purse. Then she balled up her sweater pushing it against the windows and the door jam. Her skull was starting to pound and her ears were hot, like lava was sloshing about inside.

No one said anything in the car, but Lyndy knew Gillian and Fred were keeping a close eye on her. And why wouldn’t they? She was their meal ticket to a bigger payday than the average Joe would see in about twenty lifetimes.

She recalled a Rita memory from the eighties, which for some reason hadn’t surfaced yet. Perhaps the reposado had shaken it loose.

A magazine came to interview Miss Lovelace for a western lifestyle piece. They’d expended several rolls of film that day, at the Tucson ranch in its heyday. Like action shots of Rita brushing a horse’s mane, or throwing a saddle atop a mare.

Later they interviewed Rita as she relaxed poolside, a breeze blowing through her long dark hair—it extended to her hips in those days. Her knees were drawn to her chest and Rita was smoking as the setting desert sun flirted with the horizon. Lyndy was working as her bodyguard, seated in the shade of the porch, across the railing and away from the pool. Lyndy was dressed in men’s attire, including a flannel shirt and wide-brimmed hat, cause she didn’t like to draw attention on days like this. She was probably drinking beer, though this fact she couldn’t remember.

The question asked by the interviewer: “What about kids? Do you feel your life would be more meaningful and complete with a family?”

Rita came as close to blushing as she ever did. A shy smile molded on her face, and she remained quiet for half a minute. Inside she was fretting at how to answer, and she glanced to Lyndy with the same sly smile and a twinkling in her green eyes. She even tapped some of her ashes into a planter, extending the meaningful gap in conversation.

“Well, I certainly haven’t met that special someone. And not for lack of trying.” Rita inhaled deeply, whisking her long hair behind her in a move she made about a hundred times a day, which became annoying once you noticed it. “I’ve been told I can be a tad high energy.” She looked to Lyndy again, who kept her mouth zipped, as she exhaled a puff of smoke. Rather than simply high energy—also true— the words coming to Lyndy’s mind were: willful, selfish and often demanding.

The writer was scribbling shorthand notes, and for redundancy had one of those reel-to-reel tape recorders running.

Rita stood up. “But one day when I’m expecting, I think I’d like—well, I hope for—it to be at the same time as my best friend. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this. I want to experience motherhood together, so we can share the adventure.” Rita paced into the shade of the porch. “We’ve talked about it. I know she would be an excellent mom.”

“Who would you say is your best friend?” The reporter seemed confused, knowing Rita wasn’t seen with many women friends. She was known as a tomboy.

Rita placed her fingers atop Lyndy’s shoulders. “This lady right here.”

Lyndy winced bitterly as the embarrassing scene replayed on a projector in her mind. What a complete joke. Miss Lovelace wanted to be pregnant at the same time? Oh yeah, right! Another broken promise from the queen of broken promises. The hairs on her arms began to stand.

The Spitfire touched the top of Fred’s hand, causing him to look at her. “What happens to that money? You were saying it reverts back to Arizona if we don’t act?”

“That’s right.”

Lyndy nodded and exhaled. “After all I did. She called me her best friend, then cast me off like a wad of used toilet paper. She owes me more than a cheap stack of Costco prints. This is beyond insulting.”

“So, you’ll sign the affidavit?” questioned Gillian eagerly, from the front passenger seat.

Lyndy gazed at the smart phone she didn’t know how to use. It indicated the time and that she had no new messages. “Yeah, I’ll do it. I’ll sign the documents and I only have two conditions.”

“Okay? Sure, what is it?” asked Fred, touching Lyndy’s shoulder.

“I need to consult a tax accountant first.” Lyndy paused. “I know. Shocking. I have an accountant. He’s an H&R Block guy who used to do my taxes and knows a lot more than I do. Probably knew me when I was still cute, which is why he’s nice to me.”

Fred chuckled. “Make sense,” he answered. “I mean, the first part, about getting the tax advice. But what’s the other thing?”

Lyndy grinned. “You sir, owe me a taillight repair on my Mustang.

Fred snapped his finger and thumb together. “Dang! You’re right. I almost forgot about that.”

“Well, I haven’t,” replied Lyndy. She half expected him to answer, just pay somebody now that we’re going to be rich. But he didn’t.