Marko blasted back to the Cantina. Nothing bothered him more than a brother getting his bike stolen. This brother, Bart, was a big stout machinist union member who had fallen on hard times. He was once well off, but a nasty divorce and the 2008 collapse left his engineering business in shambles, so he returned to the grubby coast.
Everything slipped downhill for Bart except his creative spirit and knowledge. Everything he did was top notch, from his Softail to his Corvette and the boat he ended up living on in the Port of Los Angeles. His big brown eyes were full of deep concern when he explained his problem to Marko.
“I recently had rototator cuff surgery and I’m living off disability,” Bart said, and showed Marko a shot of his glistening, custom-painted Softail. “It was locked but not chained.”
His story went on and on. He didn’t park it in the motorcycle only parking area and Margaret only found sparse video footage of that area of the Cantina parking lot. Marko listened intently for clues while big Bart rolled on about his racecars in storage, his machine tools in the back of a Bakersfield, California, machine shop, and his furniture in a garage behind a house in Fresno. He had shit stashed in unsecured or partially secured locations throughout the Central Valley.
Bandit received a call from the Redhead of Redheads at the Pacific Marina.
“There’s been a flurry of thefts in this area,” she said. “It’s mostly trucks or trailers full of belongings and tools, probably meth head thieves.”
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