Celebration planning took over the Cantina. The girls received new celebratory uniforms. The Chinaman busted ass on a new menu. Everything would be repaired, from electrical to plumbing, and then detailed by the busy staff.
A strong sense of elation filled the air. The two stolen motorcycles were returned to their owners and brothers around the Cantina helped repair one of them. It was also the middle of the 2017 holidays and time for a celebration of bravery, brotherhood and success.
Bandit’s Cantina had a banner year. The economy seemed to be returning slightly. Guys, other than union guys, seemed to have some change in their pockets and more were buying and building scooters.
Marko jumped in the white Cantina van and peeled down Pacific Street in San Pedro to collect party supplies. A large part of San Pedro looked just as it appeared in the ‘40s. The buildings remained somewhat the same; lots of Spanish architecture homes still stood unmodified.
An art crowd was beginning to surface on 6th and 7th streets, taking over the antique stores, but pawnshops still peppered Pacific. From the top floors of concrete bank buildings, you could see the harbor.
As Marko rolled from a stop, he spotted a bedraggled woman on the corner yelling across the street at no one in particular. He thought it was odd. Sure, there were winos and drunks downtown streets, but a homeless woman?
She wasn’t that old, maybe 35, but the scrawny meth head wore tattered clothes and waved her skinny arms frantically. Meth had taken its toll.
.jpg)
Marko rolled through a short three-mile run to the butcher shop, restaurant supply and hardware store. One of the stores famous for its meat was on a side street across from a small park. Marko parked the van and strolled inside with his list of the Chinaman’s demands. Usually Frankie handled errands, but Marko wanted to stop by Century Motors, the oldest running bike shop in the country.
As Marko stepped through the wide glass doors onto the street, he stumbled into an obese woman. “Excuse me, ma’am,” Marko said.
“Fuck you, white boy,” she muttered while pushing a rusting shopping cart containing all her worldly goods. The woman could have been any number of mixed races, maybe black, Hispanic, American Indian, white and maybe even a touch of Pacific islander.
Hunched over like a fat C in motion, Marko checked whatever visible flesh jiggled in the afternoon sunlight. Its irritated surface was pockmarked with open sores. Marko stepped back, unwilling to breathe her wispy gulps of seaside air, her scent, or the dust from her clothes. It wasn’t a pretty picture. She didn’t ask for change or anything and Marko was relieved to step away unscathed.
Marko was as tough as they come – A master in several martial arts, close quarters combat, knives, and heavy artillery – but this broad scared him. Something strange hit him like the notion of the black plague in 16th century England. He loaded the van and moved on quickly.
.jpg)
Two city blocks away, he talked to Tim at Century about a 1929 D Harley frame and front end. But as he walked toward the van parked on 17th, he noticed another street woman with a bottle of wine perched on a bus bench. On his way back toward the harbor and the Cantina location on the main channel, he discovered another scrawny homeless woman walking the streets. What did it mean?
It struck him hard like a giant question mark. Why were there suddenly destitute women roaming the streets? Why women? Sure, he spotted couples living in dilapidated motorhomes. Something seriously wrong about this picture stood out against the old strong concrete buildings and bright sunlight.
His cell phone rang the bark of Bandit, a special signal. “What’s wrong?” Marko announced.
“Nothing,” Bandit said. “Where are you? The party is warming up. It’s a good day on the harbor.”
Bandit wasn’t generally massively cheery. Piled with lots of responsibilities, he had plenty on his tin plate 24/7. But getting these bikes back was a major accomplishment for the brothers who lost them and for the Code of the West.
In full swing, the party action was upbeat. All the brothers arrived and were confident, while parking in the motorcycle-only zone. Frankie set up security and beamed with pride over his own involvement in the desert FXR rescue.
They never found the kid who stole the FXR. He was buried in a shallow desert grave outside Indio, California. Marko shared what he saw in town with Bandit. The big man nodded somberly and motioned to Clay, snuggled up to the bar with his new squeeze, Shirley, a dark haired alcoholic.
Shirley stumbled into Clay’s life. She slipped into the Los Angeles party life and found herself snorting meth and fucking all night long in Hollywood. She went from looking hot to being an object of all night sex parties.
About to encounter perhaps the last party of her life, she found herself with a thug with an equally bad habit in his late-model Camaro on their way to Vegas. He basically sold her to retire his meth debt or at least part of it. He delivered the willing girl and would walk away. She would party and be fucked in all the wrong places until there was nothing left. She was destined for another sandy desert shallow grave.
But fortune shined on her that dark night under a sliver of a moon when a couple of fast and furious guys made the wrong move on the I-15, clipped the Camaro and drove them off the freeway into the open desert full of creosote, cactus, tumbleweed and baked beer cans. Her gangster driver died and she scored a couple of broken bones and 65 grand after the lawyers made their case.
She dried out from the drugs and drinking while healing and could have shifted gears out of the streets and into a secure life, but she gave into her weakness. She immediately mixed alcohol with her pain medication.
Clay, on the other hand, had a handle on his drinking. He still worked as a certified welder and lived on his funky sailboat in the Los Angeles harbor. He didn’t have much and didn’t want much. He rode motorcycles as a younger man, but when faced with a life of living on a boat, it eliminated the garage aspect and scooters parked by the sea rotted away from the salt air or were stolen or stripped in distant unsecured parking lots.
He became a minimalist with only his boat and a small Toyota pickup truck. It was the perfect living arrangement. He loved it, but sometimes missed a woman in his life. That’s where the Cantina fit in. Not only was the Chinaman’s Mexican food the best and the Coronas ice cold, but there were always girls around.
He developed a family of them in the waitresses and occasional customers. He had a constantly changing array of cuties in the patrons, and from time to time one would pick the stool next to him for the night. Perfect.
Shirley was the latest. She wasn’t much different than previous broads. They always had an issue, some more serious than others. As a younger broad Shirley may have been hot looking, but her short stature and lack of voluptuousness didn’t fair well for her. She still contained some of her looks. Her hair was dark and straight along with her face. Her tits weren’t big, but she pushed them all the right directions with her under-garments. She had a tight bubble butt and it worked well in yoga pants.
The party was on. Everyone had a blast and watched football on the big screen. Brothers shot the shit about their bikes and watched a variety of vessels move along the main channel.
The Chinaman’s staff outdid themselves with chicken quesadillas, wonderful cilantro salsas of the rojo and verde varieties, with cheese enchiladas, pork tacos, tamales and colorful grilled vegetables. Bill Hayes and his band played the blues live and the dance floor moved to the rhythms of the night as the sun set.
Everyone had a blast until a bubbly blonde approached Marko at his security stand. “Excuse me,” she said. She was obviously high and stumbling some.
“Yes?” Marko said and glared at her. “You’re not driving tonight, are you?”
“No,” the girl said and blushed slightly.
“How can I help you?” Marko said.
“I lost something,” she said and eyed Marko. Her motivations started to change from reporting a loss to sex.
Marko was use to that. It happened often. “What could it be?” Marko said. “I’ll keep an eye out for it.”
She described a gold make-up container she thought she might have left in the head.
The blond was hot and ready. Marko was weak on blondes with thick wavy hair and a look of educated bliss. She was ripe and ready. Her lips were full and tantalizing. Although buzzed, she still was in full control and looked as if she worked out regularly. She stepped closer.
“Do you work out?” Marko asked.
“I run and train three days a week at the Golds Gym in Long Beach,” she said and touched his inner thigh.
Marko reached over and touched a button on his phone. It let Bandit know he would be stepping away from his duties.
“Come on,” Marko said. He’d set up studio apartment adjacent to the Cantina garages, where their bikes were secured. He basically set up his security outpost next to a secret door into his chamber. He gently led her from the Cantina bar through his door into his private salon.
Before her eyes could focus on all the weapons in racks around his bedroom she slipped out of her clothes and they embraced naked on his king bed.
In less than 45 minutes she was blissfully sober, spent, dressed and stepping back into the Cantina where she hugged Marko once more and slipped across the floor to her pals in the dining room.
“I’m missing my wallet,” she said and Marko took down the information. This wasn’t uncommon until a third woman approached him with a missing coat. She was pissed and her dark Hispanic eyes glared at Marko.
Maria stood almost 5’7” and was as voluptuous as they come. Marko stared into her clear direct gaze laced with false eyelashes. He was about ready for another romp, but she was a different sort, no messing around for her.
“I’ll look into it,” Marko said and gave her his card. “Call me tomorrow.”
She wore everything tight from her spike heels to a sprayed-on black dress and her cleavage was to die for.
She looked at him hard. “I’m not going to walk away,” she said. “That was a $1,500 leather Ralph Lauran jacket.”
Marko could give a shit less about anything with a name attached to it. He thought most of it was pure bullshit, like the girls with $200 denims full of holes. He thought the girls were poor and couldn’t afford new jeans.
Inside, he waited for one more complaint and he would be sure of something underhanded. He approached Margaret at the bar. She constantly rocked his world. There was something tight and right about this woman. She worked out constantly. Worked hard and always with a smile. She was short, but moved like an old R&B song, with rhythm and grace.
“Has anyone turned anything into lost and found?” Marko asked.
“Not yet,” Margaret said with a smile. “But I’ll bet some one is about to stumble.” She finished making a tray of drinks and handed it to Tina.
Marko looked at her inquisitively. What the hell did she mean? Another 30 minutes passed and the bar was beginning to clear out.
Clay sat in his regular spot and Shirley took the spot next to him. They seemed to be finishing their last two Coronas. Marko didn’t pay much attention, but he eyed the grocery bag at her side on the hardwood deck. It seemed to be substantial.
Marko watched as patrons collected their belongings and headed toward the big oak doors. He watched for overtly blotted patrons or brothers he could convince to leave their bikes in secure parking and take an Uber or cab home.
His gaze returned to Clay and his sweetie sitting at the bar. She was gone, maybe to the head. Clay seemed to paying their tab. Then he looked around as if to find her.
Marko spotted Margaret looking at him and smiled. Her knowing expression was telling, but he wasn’t sure what it meant. She looked at Clay, then back at Marko about 25 feet away.
Marko’s eyes caught a patron trying to pick up Tina, but she didn’t seem distressed. He would watch the encounter. The Chinaman’s Hispanic crew hustled through the dining area clearing tables.
Suddenly a male patron approached abruptly. “My wallet’s missing,” the rider said abruptly.
“What the hell did you do with it?” Marko said.
“It was on the table while Tina ran my card,” the stout rider said dismayed.
Marko started to step out of his security alcove when he heard a scream. Two rows of tables in the dining room a woman started to turn and run toward the front door. Marko followed her gaze and saw a plastic bag of stacked leftover containers disappear around the exit door.
“Frankie, stop the person with the take-out bag,” he ordered into his walkie-talkie.
“Roger that,” Frankie responded. “I’ve got her.”
Marko stepped out the oak doors onto a Spanish tile entryway and came face to face with Frankie and Clay’s girl, Shirley. The patron followed.
“I thought these were my leftovers,” Shirley said innocently and offered them back to the angry woman who chased her.
Clay came to Marko’s side carrying the grocery sack. “Is this yours?” Marko asked of Clay who looked sort of like a deer in high beams.
“No, it’s…” Clay muttered a little buzzed.
“It’s not mine,” Shirley said emphatically and Clay’s expression switched from unknowing to distain and questioning.
“But I thought you said…” Clay said.
Shirley squirmed and interrupted again. “Can we go now?”
Marko looked at the feeble Clay and then at the twisting Shirley making her moves as fast a reporter hammering out a front-page story on a keypad. Her mind worked overtime.
Marko snatched the canvas grocery sack from Clay and returned to the Cantina dining room. Clay started to follow.
“No,” Marko said looking past him to Shirley. “Take her home. I’ll take it from here.”
Marko poured the contents of the Sprouts canvas grocery sack on a dining table and out rolled a gold compact, wallets and a leather jacket. The Hispanic broad stepped up and grabbed her jacket.
“Thank you so much,” she said and her stern countenance started to change and Marko picked up on the tender vibe, but he couldn’t go there, not tonight.
He returned the wallets to rightful owners and a couple of customers had cut a dusty trail.
“What the fuck?” Frankie asked.
“Clay must have picked up the lost and found bag,” Marko said, since other patrons looked on. He returned the bag to Margaret in the saloon.
“That broad is going to be trouble,” Margaret said. “She bought Clay two beers when she first arrived and has milked him ever since.”
“I’ll have a talk with him,” Marko said looking at her directly. He knew now what her previous comment and body language tried to tell him.
“Deal with it quick,” Margaret. “She’s on drugs and working the system.”
