Bandit marched through the massive oak doors packin’ two cases of Jack Black into the near-empty Cantina. It was shift change and Tina was getting ready to leave. Two other waitresses were arriving. “Attention on deck!” Bandit shouted in mock military fashion.
He was greeted with half-hearted salutes and boos. But a quiet countenence fell around the room. Tina, on her way out the door, taped a Bike-Night flier over the broken glass block.
“I hear gunshots,” the Chinaman said in broken English, stumbling through the stainless steel galley doors. The Chinaman was a robust Chinese immigrant and chef. The best Mexican food chef on the port, according to him.
“Fist fighting isn’t allowed in the Cantina,” Bandit said raising one eyebrow to indicate the joke to those who understood, but the Chinaman looked puzzled. Just then the Cantina doors blew open to reveal a bubbly brunette that lit a fire in Bandit?s eyes. Most women did. It was Nyla, the evening shift bartender.
She was tall and slender, full chested and full of life. Her eyes were as dark as her hair. God, she was a knockout. Bounding up to Bandit, she pulled him around after he set the booze on the bar and laid a major lip lock him. “It’s quiet in here,” she whispered in his ear, “let’s go upstairs for a quickie.”
“Get ready, babe,” Bandit said, always anxious to touch Nyla’s creamy thighs. “I’ll be up in 10 minutes.”
Marko rolled a dolly loaded with cases of booze in the front door and wheeled it toward the galley. It would be happy hour shortly and they needed to prepare.
The evening shift waitresses busied themselves cleaning tables, as Bandit went behind the bar, restocked the shelves and poured him a tumbler of Jack and dropped two ice cubes into the amber liquid. He looked out over the bar into the dining room. The place was vacant, but shortly it would be packed like sardines in tin. He helped Marko store the beer and booze.
As he turned to climb the stairs to his apartment above the Cantina and suited citizen pushed in the double Oak doors. Marko immediatly went to greet the young looking, banker type. His suit was well fitted, but he looked like he lived in it. “Can we help you?” Marko said.
“I’m Joe Hernandez, Los Angeles Police Department. Is the owner in?” The officer was clean cut but tired looking. A 5:00 shadow loomed around his jaw and he chewed a tooth pick in a discusted fashion, like he didn’t want to be there.
“Nope,” Marko said, “But I’m security. Can I help you?”
“It’s about gunshots.” The officer put his badge away and pulled out a small memo pad and drew a slim Cross pen out of his white dress shirt pocket. He looked at Marko with the skill of an investigator ready to bury anyone at the slip of a tongue. He knew he wouldn’t find out anything about the shooter, but if this guy slipped, he could pull down the entire business. The community would rather it went away regardless.
“Can’t tell you much. No one was hurt,” Marko said pointing to the bullet lodged in the bar pillar.
“Tell me about the owner?” Officer Hernandez asked.
“Can I get you a Coke or some chips and salsa,” Marko said and walked away from the cop…
