Between Covid and multiple mandates, the Cantina business model imploded. It was no longer about food and parties. It was all about survival. Every Monday morning the staff met to discuss how to get through the next week.
The Chinaman still cooked with his band of Hispanic refugees who were now a part of the Cantina family. They cooked half to feed the staff and the other half was taken into the community to help destitute families. Violence in the streets increased exponentially, while the economy tanked. Riots spread across the city, but only occasionally reached the port region, but still the anxiety and uneasiness spread.
More and more young loners came to the Cantina to help or hide out. Walker’s Café on Pt. Fermin closed after almost 70 years as a coastal biker hangout. Between break-ins and anti-fossil fuel zealots Bikers were no longer allowed to ride along the scenic winding coast.
Brothers who needed cash sold extra parts in a small swap area in the Cantina garages. Some gave parts to the Cantina to sell to pay the bills, others brought stuff to sell and split with the Cantina.
Marko reported to the Monday morning Cantina committee meeting. “We’re not doing bad,” Marko said. “We pulled in enough to cover the lights, internet and phone bills this month and more guys are coming around to find deals on stuff.”
“That’s terrific,” Bandit said. “Rumor has it, Covid is dying, and we might be able to open the patio again.”
The staff applauded. “But can we muster the funds to replenish our booze and food inventory?” Margaret asked concerned.
“We will come up with something,” Bandit said and looked at Marko. “How about a Cantina Charity Swap next weekend? We can host bikes for sale on the pier and the girls could serve mimosas and taquitos.”
“Sounds good,” Marko said, “but I will need to enhance our security.”
“You work on security,” Bandit said. “I’ll work on the funds for the Cantina Food Drive.”
“I know what I could do,” Sheila muttered.
“No prostitution or drug sales,” Bandit snapped, and Sheila shut up.
“But what about,” Tina said and jiggled her big boobs under her ruffled low-cut top.
“Sorry,” Bandit said, “no lap dances or stripper poles.”
“I’ll work with the local print shop on some fliers,” Frankie said. He grabbed a sheet of printer paper and started to scribble SAVE THE CANTINA across the top.
“Margaret, would you work with Frankie on the wording,” Bandit said. “Don’t forget the four Ws, what, where, when and why. I’ll see about some art.”
Just then a loud 96-inch Dyna pulled up in front of the Cantina. Jeremiah dismounted and started to yank his leather gloves off.
“Let’s get started,” Bandit said, “We need to haul ass. Let’s pull this together by next weekend. We’re burnin’ daylight.”
Bandit strolled out the front door. “Don’t get comfortable,” he said to Jeremiah. “Let’s ride.”
“But,” Jeremiah said and threw his leg back over his silver Dyna hot rod.
“We will grab lunch when we get back,” Bandit said and rolled his chopper out of the garage and fired it up. They rode across town passed homeless encampments where kids once rode skateboards and had a blast. America was beginning to look like a third world country and some power brokers wanted it that way.
They rode up Vermont to Harbor City and found a small ‘50s duplex where a very slight Pilipino Vietnam Veteran lived. He couldn’t hear much after all the shelling he endured, but he was a fine pen and ink artist and master at carving ostrich eggs. The Dremel dust was also killing him.
They slid up in front of his small door and Lupe immediately opened the screen door. “My brothers,” he said.
Behind him another young Hispanic rider came out. “Bandit,” he said impressed.
“What’s happening?” Bandit said pulling his gauntlet gloves off and unbuttoning his black leather vest.
Lupe, a tiny man packed with war and agent orange ailments still moved spryly. “What can I help you with? You might be able to help Julio. He’s in a jam. And of course, it’s a woman.”
Julio, a 28-year-old short Mexican was dressed in all black. He rode an old Ironhead Sportster. He stepped forward but didn’t speak. Bandit noticed the tears welling up in his eyes.
“What’s going on?” Bandit said.
“Huh,” Lupe said trying to hear Bandit.
“What’s going on, goddammit?” Bandit barked.
“His girl was snatched,” Lupe said. “Some kind of human trafficking gang.”
“What’s he going to do,” Bandit said looking from Julio to Lupe.
“He’s going to ride to Las Vegas and see if he can’t get her back.”
“What are his chances?” Bandit said.
“He knows some gardeners who work around rich bad guys’ homes,” Lube explained. “They know what going on.”
“So why isn’t he on the road,” Bandit inquired.
“Short on cash,” Lupe said.
“Is he good for it?” Bandit asked Lupe.
“Huh,” Lupe said and Bandit left it alone.
Bandit stepped up to Julio, peeled off $200 and handed it to him. “Do you have a cell phone?”
“Thank you, and yes,” Julio muttered. He was a good-looking kid, who looked fit. The determination in his features was prevalent.
Bandit followed him to his motorcycle and looked it over. “Is this puppy up to the task?”
“It’s all I have,” Julio mounted the bike packed to the gills with what looked like everything he owned.
Bandit handed him a Cantina business card. “Stay in touch.”
“Yes sir,” Julio said and kick-started the old XLCH to life and then peeled out of the parking lot.
They all watched the ’69 Sportster roll into the street. “Sportsters never die,” Jeremiah said.
“Let’s hope so,” Bandit said. “I want to ride back to Vegas like I want a hole in the head. We need to help out the Cantina. We came over for some art.”
“Huh?” Lupe said and Bandit repeat himself.
Anything you need my brother,” Lupe said. “Come in.”
“We need a cool black line-drawing illustration for our Cantina Food Drive,” Bandit said. “Something with girls, the Cantina and maybe a chopper. We are having a swap meet with our girls serving mimosas, bikes for sale and munchies.”
“Huh?” Lupe said and Bandit got close and said it again.
“Got it,” Lupe said, “how about tomorrow morning?”
“I will pick it up in the morning,” Jeremiah said. “I’ll bring it to the Cantina.”
“Tacos are on me,” Bandit said. “I’ll take care of you,” he said to Lupe.
“Huh?” Lupe responded as they fired up their bikes and hit the road back to the Cantina.
The afternoon sun shined on the harbor and sailboats glistened on the sparkling waters. As Bandit and Jeremiah peeled right on Harbor Boulevard they slowed behind a weaving compact car. It suddenly screeched to a stop and the two males in the car threw their takeout food trash into the street then drove off. Bandit and Jeremiah pulled to the side and kicked out their side stands. They dismounted and gathered the trash into one plastic fossil fuel created bag wrapped it over one of their fossil fuels manufactured grips and continued to the Cantina.
They pulled up and Bandit yanked off his beanie helmet and gloves. Jeremiah, a young tough who grew up in San Pedro was all about cool, from his converse sneakers and clam digger shorts, 5-Ball leather vest and the hottest full-face helmet on the market. He rode like his uncle was the Pedro Police chief. He wore all the coolest shit and drove a lowered ’52 chevy. “What’s up dog,” Jeremiah said to Bandit. “You going to open this joint or not?”
“You know the mandates dipshit. We are working on a swap meet for this weekend to raise funds for just that,” Bandit said. “We need inventory and supplies.”
Jeremiah drove truck for one of the local fish processing companies. “I’ll bring you all the fish, crab, lobster, and shrimp you need. You’ve always been here for me.”
“Thanks,” Bandit said, “And bring around any parts you want to unload and bring your riding partners this weekend. You might catch a deal on something.”
“You got it,” Jeremiah said. “Can I get a shot of Tequila before I split?”
“We’re fresh out,” Bandit said, “but if we do well this weekend, we’ll be stocked up and be ready to rock next week.”
“Fuck,” Jeremiah snapped. “What the fuck good are you?”
“I’m just your brother forever and grab a couple of the Chinaman’s Tacos before you peel out,” Bandit said, and they shook hands. Margaret approached with a bag of chicken tacos adorned with the Chinaman’s super sauce, sliced Jalapenos and Cantina coleslaw, which Jeremiah loaded in his leather dayroll, and then he popped a wheely and peeled out of the parking lot.
Action was heavy and growing. Jeremiah showed up the next morning with a drawing for the flier from Lupe. “That kid is broke down is Baker,” Jeremiah said.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Bandit snapped.
“Whatta ya mean?” Jeremiah said.
“Why aren’t you half way to Baker to help him out?” Bandit said half kidding.
“I gotta work,” Jeremiah said shuffling his feet.
“You mean I gotta ride to Baker,” Bandit said.
Marko stepped up. “I’ll go.” Marko was a master of everything. He could handle it.”
“You need to stay here and man the fort,” Bandit said. “We have a mission right here.”
“I’m driving tonight,” Jeremiah said, “And I’ll fix your fish inventory.”
“You’re right,” Bandit said, and his cell phone rang.
“Bandit, it’s Julio,” he said. “You told me to call.”
“You’re in Baker,” Bandit said. “Jeremiah let us know. What’s happening?”
“My bike runs,” Julio said. “But it won’t move.”
“Does the clutch feel okay?” Bandit asked.
“Yep,” Julio replied. “I need to get to Vegas fast.”
“Put it in gear,” Bandit said. “Is the sprocket spinning?”
“Yup,” Julio said.
“Check the rivets,” Bandit requested.
“That’s it,” Julio spat. “Fuck.”
“Unlikely you’ll find rivets and tools. Find a welder in town,” Bandit said. “I’m on my way.”
Bandit headed for the garage and tools. Mechanical brake drum rivets were hard to come by. He found a few and the tools. He wrapped them in rags to pad them from the vibration and loaded them into his bedroll.
“If I’m lucky, I’ll be back by Friday,” Bandit said to Marko. “You’ve got this right?”
“You bet,” Marko said. “We always seem to be on the road to somewhere recently.”
“This to shall pass,” Bandit said buttoned up his vest and donned his small required helmet. He fired his Shovelhead chopper with a 93-inch engine and blasted out of the parking lot dodging 18-wheelers along Harbor Boulevard to the … corridor leading directly into the city, 20 miles away. He caught an exit and dipped onto the 405 Freeway to the 605 heading north then onto the 10 rolling east. As he settled down to a firm 75 mph blast, he placed his deerskin glove on his rubbermounted, aluminum XRT gas tank to check for excessive vibration.
He knew at this point his life depended on every stainless-steel fastener he used to build the light and agile Harley Chopper. Every brother and trusted resource he knew in the chopper industry held his life in his or her hands as he kicked it up to 80 mph and split lanes while trying to cut through traffic and onto Interstate 15.
Bandit thought about his aluminum rimmed wheels. The brake anchor brackets he made and how he replaced one when he discovered a weakness. The bike was light and agile. He worked with engine manufacturer S&S to reduce the size of the Shovelhead from 105 to 93 inches, which was perfect, fast, and much less stress on his rigid chassis. He ran a bulletproof 5-speed transmission from Baker drivetrain and a BDL belt drive, clutch and a stout chain and a 48-tooth rear sprocket.
As he rolled onto the wide and massive 15, he sliced across the mild desert into the steep hills of the San Bernardino mountains through the growing city of Victorville and then Barstow through another pass into the middle of nowhere where Baker lived next to a massive dry lake bed.
He gassed up in Victorville and checked the chopper over. He had 83 miles left to roll into Baker. He figured he would slide in at about 3:00 in the afternoon and still have time to find a welder or a shop to repair Julio’s Sportster.
He had a feeling his mission wouldn’t end in Baker. He kicked his kickstand into it’s locked upright position, slammed his boot against the shifter and jumped into action toward the onramp and onto the north bound Interstate.
Desert bright and blistering, he unsnapped his vest and flew into the sandy air through Barstow and into the desert pass to where Baker rested alone in the blistering sun. He purposely glanced away as mileage signs flew past. He held out all he could to hopefully be surprised by less that 20 miles to go.
As he crested the hill, Baker shimmered below like an oasis in a vast sea of nothingness, a dark haven for passing travelers. Only 735 folks dare to remain in Baker year round to manage the three gas stations, one Mad Greek restaurant, two fast food joints and the Alien Jerky shop. With two exits in the blistering sun, Bandit slid off the narrowed interstate and into the second gas station, where he spotted Julio leaning against the building in the limited shade.
“Bandit,” Julio almost shouted as Bandit entered the hot asphalt parking area.
“Did you find a welder?” Bandit said screeching to a stop and dismounting quick.
“Only a set of torches behind Alien Jerky,” Julio said.
“Okay,” Bandit said. “That’s not going to do the trick. Let’s take your rear wheel off. I brought some rivets and tools.”
Bandit borrowed a milk crate from the station as Julio took all the crap off his bike. Bandit noticed the strange array of ropes, hoists and weapons. They lifted the bike onto the crate, removed the chain, the rear wheel and the hub from the wheel.
“You’re lucky,” Bandit said. “The sprocket isn’t in bad shape.”
While the kid took the hub off, Bandit called Joe in Vegas, his FXR compadre. “Joe, what do you know about Hispanic girls being trafficked in Vegas?”
“There are plenty of bad folks here,” Joe said. “Let me check around.”
“We don’t need a war,” Bandit said. “But I got a kid who wants his girl back, bad. He’s prepared to do whatever it takes. I don’t cotton to messing with young girls. Seems sorta chickenshit to me.”
“I got it,” Joe said. “What’s her name?”
Bandit turned to Julio. “Her name?”
Julio tapped the drum loose with a crescent wrench and looked up. His face was full of sadness, “Maria Sanchez.”
“Did you get that,” Bandit said to Joe.
“Yeah,” Joe said. “I’ll get back to you.”
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The day was as hot as a heated oven ready for a roast, every color in Baker seemed washed out from the billboards to the chipped stucco buildings. Bandit yanked off his tattered leather vest and hung it on his handlebar mirror. They were forced to work in the direct sunlight using a cinderblock wall as an anvil.
Bandit pulled out his tools and set up a work station with the handful of rivets. “I don’t have enough rivets to replace them all,” Bandit said. “You’re going to need to take it easy, until we can get more.” He had the kid hold the drum level as he used a special punch tool to drive the head of the rivet.”
“I take it you have a heavy hammer,” Bandit asked.
“Yes,” Julio said. “I brought everything.”
“Where did you learn this stuff?” Bandit said. “You have repelling gear, lines and pulleys.”
“I’m in the National Guard,” Julio said handing Bandit the hammer. “I am taking some special forces training.”
“Hopefully, we won’t need it,” Bandit said and started to whack the punch to drive the rivet home. It wasn’t the best set-up and they chipped one cinderblock and had to move onto another. Just as they drove the last rivet into place, Bandit’s phone pinged an arriving call.”
“Come in, over,” Bandit said.
“It’s Joe,” Joe said. “Do you have any money? I had to pay for her.”
“What are we talking?” Bandit said.
“A thousand bucks,” Joe said. “I’m going to pick her up now. I can meet you in Primm in two hours.”
“I’ll take care of you,” Bandit said. “We will be there.”
“I’ll buy you a steak at the Primm Valley Resort,” Joe said and hung up.
“Fuck,” Bandit said and slammed the last rivet in place. “Let’s button this puppy up and ride to Primm. You’re girl’s coming home.”
Julio, sweating like a stuck pig, smiled, didn’t say a word and together they started to replace the drum, then the wheel. But his phone rang again.
“Marko,” Bandit said. “Don’t tell me bad news. We need to raise another grand.”
“It’s not,” Marko said. “It’s not good news either. The governor decided to let criminals out of jail. It’s causing a problem in Long Beach, shootings. We need to be extra careful this weekend. We will need extra muscle.”
“I’ll make a call,” Bandit said. “And you’ll have two more hands tomorrow morning, hopefully three.”
“Jeremiah is bringing some guys,” Marko said, “but they could be sketchy.”
“Hang on,” Bandit said. “We’ll get moving. Hold the fort until we get back.”
They loaded up quickly. They had replaced just half of the missing rivets or just eight. “No hard braking or wheelies,” Bandit said and remember, you will need to pack her home.”
“But what about all this gear?” Julio said slipping on his helmet and gloves.
“Joe will handle it,” Bandit said. “Let’s get moving.” Bandit rolled what Marko said around in his mind over and over once they rolled onto the Interstate for the blast over the pass and down the steep decline to the border of Nevada and California at Primm, Nevada. The three Casino, two gas station town was owned by one man, Mr. Primm.
The perfect break area for roaming travelers sparkled in the desert at night. As the two riders crested the mountain pass and began the steep winding decent into the Nevada desert Bandit questioned everything. Why did he come. He should have called Joe back in the city. Would this work? Would the girl be there? Could they get back to Pedro in time to deal with whatever state and city politicians decided to throw at them this time?
Bandit checked his vibrating rearview mirror and spotted an 18-wheeler screaming out of the slow lane, smoke billowing from its trailer tires. Bandit motioned to Julio to move into the left lane and kick it up a notch. The 6 percent grade, a notorious brake killer stressed loaded trucks. And a political situation that didn’t respect truckers, cops or rules, put everything in jeopardy. Truckers dodged rules and previous requirements to make an extra buck while companies ducked helpful but costly maintenance, hired scabs with sketchy vehicles to take advantage of extra profits without concern for the rigs or the drivers.
The following truck tried to move into the slow lane and brake, but his trailer brakes failed, and the rig jack-knifed. Bandit indicated for Julio to speed up. Other drivers saw the action and instead of hauling ass to get out of the way, they slowed. Bandit took the lead as the truck barreled in their direction and the trailer pulled the cab onto only its right wheels as the entire rig toppled then skidded on its side blocking three of the four lanes.
Other vehicles lost control and another big rig was unable to brake in time and hit the downed rig. Out front Bandit pulled away from the pandemonium and the two riders continued the long downward slope in over 100 degrees toward the Nevada desert below, weaving away from cars and drivers trying to watch the destruction in their rearview mirrors.
Enhancing the distance from the carnage Bandit and Julio pulled off the freeway in Primm and Bandit hoped the pile-up on the 15 wouldn’t be a sign of what was ahead or traffic on the return trip. The asphalt parking lot reminded Bandit of a big amusement park. It was vast, but the painted lines were cracked under the intense sun. Trams ran overhead from Buffalo Bills Resort and Casino to the outlet center.
The Primm Valley resort took on the theme of a luxury golf course with southern historic architecture including a white pillars and bright red, majestic, pointed roofs. Julio anxiously pulled up out front, but Bandit signaled him to follow him to an area away from the valet gang of guys moving around the covered entrance where they hid from the abject heat emitted from the notorious black asphalt.
“Hold on,” Bandit said. “I’ll watch for Joe. Keep an eye on the valet guys.”
“What do you mean?” Julio asked anxiously.
“Strip your bike down,” Bandit said. “Position yourself at the west end of the entrance over there. Watch me. If I pull my knife out of my pocket start your bike. If I flip it open get here, load your girl and get out. I’ll catch up.”
“What’s wrong,” Julio said.
“They said a thousand bucks,” Bandit said. “That’s too little. Hopefully, I’m just being edgy. I gotta go. Joe could arrive any minute.”
Bandit made his way across several lanes of asphalt, while Julio unloaded his bike and stashed his gear behind some bushes struggling to survive on an island in the parking lot.
Bandit walked behind the blistering Valet stand on the outside of the entrance lanes and watched for incoming vehicles and specifically Joe’s jet-black Bentley. He owned a sports bar restaurant and was once a VP at these Primm Valley Resorts.
Hot as hell Bandit stood against the all-white parking attendant shack and tried to duck the sun under the roof’s over hang and stay out of sight of the valets. He knew some of them ran prostitutes and could be connected.
Five minutes passed like an hour, when Joe’s shiny black sedan slipped delicately under the outer edge of the covered entrance. Bandit watched behind his sedan for a following vehicle. He step out from behind the shack and motioned to Joe who saw him.
The passenger window slid down smoothly as they stopped adjacent to the curb, and a pretty face came into view, but she didn’t look relieved. Bandit pulled his Beretta pocket knife out of his rear handkerchief pocket.
He bent down and looked over to Joe as he opened the door.
“These guys weren’t friendly,” Joe said.
“Get out of here,” Bandit said pulling the girl away from the car and slamming the door. “I’ll call later, Joe.” He snapped opened the knife as two valets approached, both sported visible neck gang tattoos.
Joe pulled in front of one of the bulky thugs and blocked his path for just a second. Joe pulled away as a black SUV pulled in front up behind the remaining valet, but Bandit held him at bay as the Sportster bounced up on the curb. “Get on,” Bandit said to Maria and held her arm as she threw a leg over the seat. “Hit it,” he said as SUV doors flew open and more thugs scrambled into the heat.
“Take this,” Julio said and handed Bandit a smoke grenade. He dropped his clutch and sped out of the lot.
Bandit flashed his knife at the big valet, pulled the pin and tossed the grenade in the air. The thug turned white with fear and Bandit punched the questioning thug hard in the jaw. The grenade burst into billows of smoke in the face of the guys coming out of the SUV.
When the smoke cleared Bandit was nowhere to be found, but they could hear his Chopper flying onto the freeway. With burning eyes, the gang of thugs went after him. Flying up the hill Bandit’s chopper held its own against the turbo-charged SUV, but as soon as the traffic snarled the two bikers split lanes and the chase was over.
Weaving through traffic Bandit and Julio were severely focused on anything including turn signals, cars attempting to change lanes, body language in vehicles, debris in the road, until they passed the accident scene and traffic began to clear.
Once clear of vehicular violence Bandit sighed and tried to release the tension in his shoulders. He looked over at Julio and nodded. Julio smiled and his girl held him tight. They didn’t stop until they reached Baker again to refuel, but Bandit knew something rough waited for him in Pedro.
