Bandit stepped through the cadre of Green and kicked in the stern sloop hatch and jumped down the stairs to the galley below. He could never understand why galleys were designed at the rear of sailboat salons where folks stepped inside with dirty, sandy or wet feet or shoes.
The small area smelled of sweat and stale perfume. On the galley counter rested a small smudged mirror and the remnants of white power next to a tarnished short silver straw. Bandit smelled it. It smelled of chlorine, the odor of meth.
He beckoned for Captain Green to come down. The salon was a mess of whiskey and wine bottles. A sheet hung around mast as if to drape over or hide something. “Call the Redhead,” Bandit spat. “We need a female witness.”
The Redhead of redheads scrambled down the ladder into the small space and held a bandana over her mouth. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be there. She reluctantly raised her cell phone camera and muttered, “Okay.”
Bandit yanked at the soiled sheet and it fell away to reveal their worst nightmare.
Maria dangled, her wrist locked in chains to the mast. Naked, her body was slashed, red with bruises and blood. The Redhead gagged but took photographs. Bandit stepped forward in the blood cover teak deck to see if she was still alive. She was.
“Take her down, quick,” Bandit said.
Marko called 911 immediately. They quickly unshackled her and laid her on a narrow corduroy salon couch. The skin surrounding her wrists was torn and ragged. Marko studied her form for the loss of blood and bandaged her wounds to prevent more bleeding. Bandit, acutely aware of his presence in a crime scene situation backed out of the salon and crawled up the ladder to the sailboat cockpit followed by Captain Green.
Sirens could be heard in the distance entering the port region. “What do you make of it?” the captain asked.
“I’m not much for cops,” Bandit said. “Get your guys out of here. Marko and the redhead will handle introductions. Let’s see what the cops come up with. At least she’s alive. We need to find that bastard.”
Marko leaned in close to the girl as he bandaged a cut under one left rib. It wasn’t a mortal wound, but a flesh laceration. As he bandaged it, she moved and her eyes opened slightly. “Where’s Bandit?” she asked breathlessly.
“The cops are coming,” Marko said. “Did you want to tell him something?”
She squeezed Marko’s forearm slightly, as if to reach out one final time. “There was another girl,” she muttered and passed out.
The club riders fired up their bikes and cut a dusty trail out of sight. The Los Angeles Police Department, Harbor Division arrived in force and quickly took over the investigation. The Redhead turned over her photos to the detective and explained what she saw.
Marko gathered his things and described the injuries as he saw them to the EMT and backed out of the salon, up the ladder, stuffed his medic bag in his saddlebag, and then cut a dusty trail back to the Cantina.
The Redhead reached out to Bartels and filled Mage in on the discovered girl and boat. “Can we get his license plate number?” she asked?
“I would bet I can,” Mage said and hung up.
The next morning early, just as the sun started its ascent over the LA Harbor, the Chinaman, the rotund Cantina Chef, stood in front of his massive Viking stove and prepared Huevos Rancheros for Bandit and his security staff who sat at a massive oak dining table situated in a private dining chamber with a spectacular view of the main channel and the battleship USS Iowa.
The Iowa was in rough shape, but someone had made a deal with the city of Los Angeles and the port to bring it back and restore it to somewhat of its glorious splendor in San Pedro.
The USS Iowa (BB-61) was the lead ship of her class of battleships and the fourth in the United States Navy to be named in honor of the state of Iowa. The Iowa is the last lead ship of any class of United States battleships and was the only ship of her class to have served in the Atlantic Ocean during World War II.
During World War II, she carried President Franklin D. Roosevelt across the Atlantic to Mers El Kébir, Algeria, en route to a crucial 1943 meeting in Tehran with Prime Minister Winston Churchill of Britain and Josef Stalin, leader of the Soviet Union. She has a bathtub—an amenity installed for Roosevelt, along with an elevator to shuttle him between decks.
During the Korean War, Iowa was involved in raids on the North Korean coast, after which she was decommissioned into the United States Navy reserve fleets, better known as the “mothball fleet.” She was reactivated in 1984 as part of the 600-ship Navy plan and operated in both the Atlantic and Pacific Fleets to counter the recently expanded Soviet Navy. In April 1989, an explosion of undetermined origin wrecked her No. 2 gun turret, killing 47 sailors.
In 2011 USS Iowa was donated to the Los Angeles–based non-profit Pacific Battleship Center and was permanently moved to Berth 87 at the Port of Los Angeles in 2012, where she was opened to the public as the USS Iowa Museum.–Wikipedia
Bandit sat at the table with Jeremiah, Marko and Frankie. They munched on magnificent fresh Chinaman salsa and even more spectacular guacamole dip and Margaret bounced in with a platter full of Mimosas.
“What do we know?” Bandit asked.
“We now have the license number for his Dyna Glide,” Marko started. “Several Vago members have offered to jam toward Arizona on the hunt, plus they have members in towns all across the desert and into Vegas.”
“What do we know about this guy?” Bandit asked jotting notes on tattered piece of printer paper he kept folded in his breast pocket.
“His name is Tommy Chin,” Marko said. “Mage said he trained in martial arts with a guy who worked with Bruce Lee.”
They discussed the case and what the hell to do next when Marko leaned close to Bandit. “Maria said something,” he said.
“She what?” Bandit said, set his fork down and leaned back in his chair. “Give it up goddammit.”
“All she said was, ‘there’s another girl.’” Marko, a tough bastard to the core, sat more upright in his chair and put a bit more distance between his torso and Bandit’s long reach.
Bandit looked at him hard. The others at the table froze. Bandit didn’t show emotion, but this time he did and it was stern. “This doubles the pressure to find him!” Everyone at the table knew the rule about women. No one hurts a woman in the Cantina and crawls out in one piece. “I need to make a call,” he said stood up and left the group at the table. “Enjoy your breakfast.”
His last comment diffused the tension at the table and the crew enjoyed their breakfast but chatted amongst themselves anxiously. Marko looked after Bandit and wondered what went through his mind.
Bandit returned to his upstairs office and called the IMB Academy in Carson, California not far up the freeway. “IMB,” a female receptionist answered. “Can I help you?”
“Is the master in the house?” Bandit asked quickly. “It’s important I speak with him.”
“No, he’s not here,” She responded. “Can you call his cell?”
“Is he in the country?” Marko said. Sifu travels all over the world training at other dojos or judging at martial arts competitions.
“He’s at home,” she responded. “Just returned from the Philippines.”
“Perfect,” Bandit said. “Thanks,” and hung up.
He called the cell number and it rang. “Yes,” Sifu answered.
“Sifu, it’s Bandit and this is not about training or your Panhead,” he said. “Tell me all you know about Tommy Chin.”
“He’s a poser,” Sifu said. “He came to the academy only a couple of times sporadically. He talked a big game, but nothing much behind it.”
“What about his past?” Bandit questioned.
“He spoke about being in the Navy, about tours in the Middle East,” Sifu said. “He said something about being an armory officer, but I never believed him.”
“Anything else?” Bandit asked.
“Not that I can think of,” said Sifu. I’ll bet a girl is involved.”
“Always,” Bandit said. “Thanks.”
Bandit jammed back into the dining room. The entire crew stood up as he walked into the broad space. “We need to move fast,” Bandit said. “The Long Beach Naval ship yard is long gone, right?”
“But we still have the Lane Victory here,” Frankie said. “And they just moored the USS Iowa just up the channel.”
“Marko, would you get you ass to the hospital and monitor the girl?” Bandit said. “Stick with her until you find out more or we do. We may have two women in harms way, or who the hell knows, but there’s a loose cannon out there somewhere.”
“Jerry, would you grab a couple of local guys and peel over to the Lane Victory and the Iowa and look for Chin’s bike? If you find it, go aboard and look for the sickbay or the galley.”
“We need to know more, before it’s too late.”
The crew peeled in several directions. Jerry, another Dyna Glide rider and James, the tile guy, rode deeper into San Pedro to where the USS Lane Victory was moored.
SS Lane Victory, an American Victory-class cargo ship used in World War II, and the Korean War was also sent to Vietnam. The ship was preserved in 1989 to serve as a museum ship in the San Pedro area of Los Angeles, California.
The Lane Victory was built in Los Angeles by the California Shipbuilding Corporation and launched on May 31, 1945. On her first voyage, June 27, 1945, the Lane Victory carried war supplies in the Pacific. With the end of World War II, she started shipping aid. In March 1946 she started delivering goods to Europe under the Marshall Plan. With the end of the aid plan, on May 11, 1948 the Lane Victory was laid up at Suisun Bay, California.–Wikipedia
The two brothers hastily rode into the parking lot and scoured the rows of cars for motorcycles. Nothing was found. They rode to the gangplank and around the water’s edge for any sign of a motorcycle. They discovered a few Jap bikes in a small secure area and a staff member in a Navy uniform approached them.
“You guys can park there if you want to take a tour,” the young cadet-looking kid said.
“Is that parking for crew or tourists?” Jeremiah asked.
“It’s generally use for staff or guys working on the ship,” the blonde cadet said.
“We’re looking for a Harley,” James popped up. “Do you work on the ship?”
“Haven’t seen any Harleys today,” the kid said. “I’m studying at Harbor College and volunteering on the Victory for credits and experience on ships. I would like to move over to the Iowa.”
“Does the Lane Victory have a sickbay?” Jeremiah asked.
“Not really,” said the kid. “It’s a small ship with just a first aid station. Funny you should ask. That’s the second time someone has asked that question in two days. We don’t have one, but the Iowa does.”
“Let’s peel,” Jeremiah spat. “Thanks. That may have helped.”
They took off like they were on fire for a couple of miles closer to the Cantina, where the USS Iowa swayed securely against a main channel dock. The Iowa parking lot spread out over a couple of acres and the brothers peeled up to the gate. Security was more evident and a guard met them at the gate.
“Are you here to tour the ship?” the guard asked suspicious of the two bikers.
“Yeah,” Jeremiah said. “We have a boss who spent time on a ship like this during the Vietnam War.”
“Okay,” said the guard. “Parking for motorcycles is up front.”
“Is that also for staff guys?” James asked.
“Yeah,”
“Any Harleys in the mix?” James asked.
“I don’t know,” I just came on my shift an hour ago.
They peeled into the parking lot and headed directly for the motorcycle parking area. Cold and damp next to the wide main harbor channel, their bikes slipped and skidded on the slick asphalt as they pulled to a stop next to the motorcycle parking area. There were more bikes of various sizes and shapes, including one or two touring Harleys and a bobber but no Dynas.
Jeremiah looked toward the gangplank and considered walking the broad length to reach the officer of the deck. Blown away by the size of the ship and the massive 16-inch guns, he scanned the length of the steel hull.
“Let’s cruise,” Jeremiah said and let out his clutch. He could sense the crew watching the two bikers putt slowly along the dock to the bow, then turning and cruising back. There was a gift shop on the dock just opening. The clerk pulled damp tarps off the sides and folded them neatly and carried them behind the shop kiosk for storage.
They cruised along the length of the hull and around any storage facility, or chain linked areas for electrical transformers and circuit breakers leading power to the ship. In each case they rode around each unit looking for the Dyna Glide.
They parked at the gangplank and start the ascent to the quarterdeck where they would meet the officer of the deck. As Jeremiah took his next step up the wood and steel path with thick rope railings he noticed the gift shop clerk below stacking the deep blue tarps next to a motorcycle.
“The Dyna Glide!” James shouted and they scrambled down the plank and around the gift shop to where a new blacked-out Dyna Glide was parked. They quickly checked the numbers and it was Chin’s.
“Have you seen the owner?” James said while Jeremiah called the Cantina on his cell.
“No,” the female clerk said. “It was here when I arrived this morning.” The Asian girl with long straight black hair worked efficiently setting up the booth.
The two brothers jammed up the gangplank. “Permission to come aboard sir,” Jeremiah said to the Officer of the deck and saluted.
“Permission granted,” said the naval officer. There was just a half dozen active duty naval staff stationed on the massive battleship. The rest of the staff consisted of volunteers or civilians.
“We are looking for the owner of that motorcycle,” Jeremiah said pointing to the dock below.
“We haven’t opened for tours,” the officer replied. “No one but staff is allowed on board before 10:00 am.”
“He might have snuck on board,” James said. “He could be involved in a serious crime against women.”
“The cops will be crawling all over this ship in a few minutes,” Jeremiah said. “Can we see the galley and sickbay?”
“I’ll get you a guide,” the young officer said and picked up a ship phone. Within two minutes a young sailor in dungarees ran to the quarterdeck. “Yes sir?”
“Take these men below to the galley and sickbay,” the officer instructed. “Have we spotted anyone out of the order dressed in motorcycle gear, maybe a young Chinese man?”
“No sir,” the sailor said. “So far, just the regular crew.” He motioned for the two bikers to follow him and they jogged to about midway on the super-structure and then stepped through a massive steel hatch and onto metal stairs leading below.
Marko didn’t like hospitals. There was something evil about their cleanliness. He worked overseas near a couple of conflict hospitals. Hospitals always indicated the end of a man’s fight and often death.
He entered the broad corridor to the UCLA Medical center emergency room and started to ask after Maria Olvera. A very black nurse at a computer searched her computer and said, “Room 314, but it’s police guarded.”
“That’s good,” Marko said and looked for the elevator sign. He rode it up to the third floor and got off. The halls were lined with gurneys, equipment, laundry hampers and staff hustling one way or another. It smelled of disinfectants and cleaning solutions.
As Marko turned the corner to the 300-314 rooms he spotted an LA Sheriff deputy standing with a member of the hospital. He didn’t like the body language and approached quickly.
“How’s she doing?” Marko asked hurriedly, handing the officer his LA Sheriff’s dive team card to indicate he was not a thug looking for trouble.
The cop, a thick Hispanic male, looked up at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m connected to the girl from a distance,” Marko said. “We discovered her in Wilmington. How is she doing?”
The other male, a doctor looked at Marko then back at his chart. “She’s alive, but barely,” he said. “Almost a drug overdose.”
“Had she lost a lot of blood?” Marko inquired.
“No, she was cut and bloody, but that wasn’t the issue,” he reviewed his chart again. “The alcohol and meth almost took her. She’s still not in good shape.”
“Thanks,” Marko said and pulled out his cell phone. “Mind if I hang out to see if she comes around?” he directed his question to the young officer.
“Sure,” the stout officer replied. “I could use the company.
Bandit answered his cell. “Yep?”
“She’s alive, but hanging by a thread,” Marko reported. “She wasn’t bleeding to death. It was mostly drugs and alcohol. I’ll hang out here.”
“Thanks,” Bandit said. “Jeremiah and James found Chin’s bike next to the Iowa. They are searching the ship. Cops will be all over the ship shortly.”
Bandit hung up and called the investigator. “Have you run tests on the blood all over the deck?” Bandit asked.
“We assumed it was the girl’s,” the investigator said in questioning tone.
“It may not have been,” Bandit replied. “She didn’t lose a lot of blood. Her problem was drugs and alcohol. I hope you can check it quick.”
The day wore on like a bad cold. No one found Chin on the ship. Maria didn’t come around, but slept peacefully while the doctors cleaned the shit out of her blood.
.jpg)
Bandit took care of business, preparing the Cantina for the Monday Night Football crowd, while hoping to hear from the investigator, Marko, the ship, anyone. He frequently paced his office and wanted to reach out, if it would only speed the process.
The sun started its decline into the Pacific and the colors over the harbor changed from blues to brilliantly rich ambers, but too soon the wild hues were erased and replaced with a dim darkness and Bandit didn’t like it.
About 5:00 his anxiety heightened. He didn’t want the detective to leave the station without answers, and what the hell happened to Chin? Jeremiah and James spent two hours scouring the vast holds, passageways, compartments, bridges, gun towers, magazine holds, radio compartments, and sleeping areas for Chin. Harbor Department officers and ship crew did the same. Nothing.
Bandit couldn’t take it anymore. At 5:30 he reached for his phone as it began to ring. It had to be the investigator, and suddenly his phone blinked with a second call, Jeremiah.
He picked up the detective’s call. “Yes sir?”
“It wasn’t her blood,” the officer said. “Not sure whose blood it was.”
“Thanks, I might know,” Bandit said. “We need to find Tommy Chin.”
“You could be right,” the detective said. “I’m sending a crew to look for blood on the bike. Still haven’t found him.”
Bandit hung up. What the hell? It was like a bad dream. Everything happened in slow motion and nothing successfully. It was as if he ran after a girl waist deep in mud. He just couldn’t get there.
That night as it neared the whiskey hour, Tina brought Bandit his one and only drink of the evening, a Jack Daniels double on the rocks, just a few rocks.
“Have you heard anything?” Tina said. She was usually perky, but sensing the dismal atmosphere of the day, she approached in a quiet respective mood.
“I wish I had something to report,” Bandit said and sipped his whiskey. He looked at Tina’s lovely form and delicious cleavage and thought of Maria. The delicate beauty of a woman and what it represented to humanity, like the most precious shape and texture on the planet, and she contains a softness that can take a man to heaven on earth. Yet?
Suddenly Margaret burst into Bandit’s office. “Sin Wu called. They found a body floating in the Leeward Bay Marina near her Chowder Barge.”
Don’t miss the final episode in this series, we hope…
