Chance rode back to his pad wondering what the hell just happened. He was naturally suspicious and sensitive to the actions of others, and what about the redhead. She hit him like a bolt flying off a speeding semi. He felt for a bruise next to his heart.
He unlocked his gate and rolled his chopper off the street. The homeless were still gone from his short industrial block in old Wilmington. Streets were asphalt, but the gutters contained historic reminders, with mortared bricks and cobblestones still reaching the surface.
Inside his shop he continued to organize the small stash of vintage parts. He checked his mail and a new issue of Cycle Source arrived. It was one of the last surviving motorcycle magazines in the era of social media and the internet.
At one point in his effort to muster his scattered thoughts while organizing the shop, he called officer Kate in Pedro. “The laundry lady was the girl,” Chance said, “but before I could find out anything some slick black SUV with Utah plates whisked her away.”
“There’s something going on down there,” Kate said. “Did you get the plate number?”
“Sure,” Chance said. “It’s LS 8160.”
“I’ll run it,” Kate said. “We have a problem in Los Angeles, and we can’t figure it out?
“What’s that besides the homeless bullshit and illegals?” Chance said.
“On top of that there’s a new influx of drugs in downtown,” Kate said. “It’s killing kids and we can’t figure out where it’s coming from. The problem is it’s spreading.”
“More opioids?” Chance asked, concerned.
“Yep,” Kate replied.
“What did you mean about something going on down in the marinas?” Chance asked.
“I haven’t got a clue,” Kate said. “This drug thing is haunting me, so I haven’t been able to focus on those marinas, but between the dead bodies, the influx of motorcycle gangs and ex-cons moving into that region, red flags are waving. I gotta go, but I suspect you’ll find out more than I ever will in a Black and White.”
“Take care of yourself,” Chance said. “I mean it. I’ll keep my eyes open. See ya.” He hung up and went back to his project process. A little later he grabbed the motorcycle magazine and walked two blocks to Maya’s restaurant on the corner of D Street and Avalon, once the active downtown region of Wilmington.
Maya’s belonged to a very round and tall elderly gentleman who perched himself in his special throne in the corner of the restaurant, next to the cash register, where he could watch the entire dining room, the counter and the kitchen.
The restaurant on the corner was small and not distinctive except for the Aztec mural on the side of the building. It had two large, metal-mesh security windows in the front with a commercial glass door in the center and plenty of security screens. Chance opened the door and stepped inside. He faced tables on his left, tables on his right and one long table down the center that could hold maybe six folks and two on the ends.
Mr. Gonzales, the owner sat in the far-left corner, next to the counter. Two waitresses, in fluffy, gathered, white cotton Hispanic dresses, detailed with colorful embroidered sleeves moved around the counter. One was a tiny Mexican girl and the other a lovely middle-aged woman with a soft smile. She looked at Chance with uplifted brown eyes and smiled slightly. Grabbing a menu, she scampered around the end of the counter. On the end, it contained a chalk board and the specials of the day were written in colorful chalk with flower illustrations to enhance the list.
Chance, amazed with the rich smells from the kitchen, including large pans of spiced pork and chicken cooking in a dark mola sauce. It was warm inside the restaurant and a large fan hunk from the ceiling for the summer months.
The woman approached in a humble manner almost bowing as showing sincerity or respect. “Uno senor?” she asked in Spanish.
“Si, gracias,” Chance said, and she led him to a small square wooden table capable of seating two.
“Aqui?” She asked and Chance nodded, took the menu and sat down.
“Something to drink?” She asked in English.
“Hot tea, por favor,” Chance said, and she smiled, sort of a quirky loving smile. He sat and looked at the menu, which was simple, an ordinary Mexican menu with a list of combination plates, another list of burritos, ala carte list and the breakfast menu with the usual two eggs and hash browns, pigs in a blanket offerings and a few Mexican omelets. One grabbed his attention, a chili relleno omelet, also featured on the chalk board as a special. His taste buds tingled at the thought or carefully roasted chillies with cheese, sour cream and spices.
While Chance pondered the specials, he reviewed the restaurant interior and patrons. Sitting at a small table in the far right corner next to the check-out counter, he nodded to what he thought was the big, round owner who consumed the small table. Chance sat directly across from him against a large stucco box, most likely the restrooms. It was the only object interrupting the almost square dining room.
Behind the restroom cubicles, were waitress supply shelves. Toward the owner, the area shifted to the counter between the waitresses and the galley. When they turned around, they faced the patron counter, which was lower, and small, only large enough for them to set to-go containers and the cash register.
The owner sat at his small wooden, square table with accounting materials splayed before him. He was close enough to kick the chair on the other side of his small painted wooden table into any abusive patron. A major deterrent to any drug addict who tried to grab his to-go order and bolt for the door, the boss acted as the manager, bookkeeper, bouncer, food critic and greeter.
Chance looked around the room decorated with sporadic old, patina photos of Pancho Villa and Hispanic art of Aztec villages. Chance was relieved to find only one TV bolted high in the forward corner of the room. He didn’t like to be distracted by multiple flat screens screaming at him from every direction. He wanted to savor the taste of good food and eat in peace.
Four blue collar business guys sat at a table, all wearing the same royal blue shirts with their company logo embroidered over one chest pocket. Another table on the other side of the room contained an elderly Hispanic couple having lunch together. They knew the waitress and chatted with her.
Finally, there were two biker sorts sitting at another table for four but only using two of the wooden chairs. One seemed young, with long dark hair tied in a ponytail. Chance noted one Harley parked at the curb. The other was an older dude wearing a gangster gray hat, while he finished his lunch. Chance thought that was disrespectful. A man takes off his hat at the dinner table.
The older cocky guy wore a black leather vest, and then he noticed the young man had a tattered denim vest tossed over the back of the chair. At the bottom was an embroidered California rocker with bright green letters sewn on a white background.
The kid listened intently as the older biker spoke, but Chance had no interest in hearing the conversation or having to do with any club business. He ordered the Chili Relleno omelet and it was magnificently adorned with fresh slices of Avocado, cilantro and a spicy handmade green salsa over the egg wrapped chili packed with spices and cheese. It filled his nostrils with warm rich scents.
He could order it with beans or potatoes, and he chose beans for more protein. He ate half of the meal and asked the waitress to box up the other half for dinner later. The waitress could sooth a boxing match. There was something about her, the way she bowed slightly with humility, care and a touch of desire.
The conversation between the two bikers became more heated and louder. The older pudgy guy with the gray fedora hat stared at the younger rider intently. Chance recognized the look of a bully, the badass.
“If you wanted to be a member,” the older cat said with a sneer, “you are going to be asked to take care of business.”
“But…” the younger rider attempted to respond.
“But nothing, you’ll do it or die trying.” He said and started to stand. He wasn’t tall but round, but he had that nasty, cut-throat air about himself. Still staring eyeball-to eyeball with the kid, one eyebrow raised slightly. “If you don’t like it, pay the bill, leave your patch and your motorcycle and walk out of here. And don’t let me catch you in this area again.”
The kid stood up shaken. His gaze was fixed on the older biker. His brotherhood fantasy world changed forever, and he saw nothing except his fate and the angry eyes of the club leader before him. The older cat wore a gray Pendleton shirt with a leather vest over it. Chance could now make out the small “Prez” patch over the chest pocket.
The prez stared at the kid and let his vest slide open to reveal an ivory handled, semi-auto stainless steel pistol inside. The restaurant got sorta quiet as the two men stood and the kid with the long ponytail backed up slightly then turned toward the counter to pay.
The older man sneered. He had bullied this kid into turning his motorcycle over to the club, losing his status with his brothers and being kicked out of town, in one nasty conversation.
Chance remembered an incident in the Navy. He stood shore patrol duty during the holidays in Long Beach. He roamed the downtown region with his sidekick. From time to time drunk sailors were fucked with by shore patrol guys who just thought they could pick on some kid from Ohio, trying to have a good time in a city far from home. When given the opportunity, Chance stepped in to resolve the situation. Bullies were everywhere.
As the Hispanic kid turned from paying the tab at the counter, Chance could see his young face contorted in fear. This older jackass had worked over this kid, like he’d done a hundred times before.
Just then officer Kate pushed open the glass door and walked in with a uniformed officer. Chance stood quickly and stepped across the room in front of the kid, who was heading toward the table to retrieve his vest and give it to the boss.
Chance snatched the vest off the chair and blocked the officers from seeing the prez of the Day of the Dead MC. He led him out the door and handed him the prospect denim vest. “You need this but let the kid keep his motorcycle and his dignity,” Chance said.
“What the fuck?” Malakai snorted, but he knew he could have been busted right there for extortion. Whoever this big guy was, he made the right move. “Just this time. But keep that punk away from me.”
Chance turned toward the door as the kid approached and steered him back inside. ?“Have a seat at my table,” Chance said and sat down. He waited for Maria to return with his to-go bag. The kid looked a little dazed.
“Relax,” Chance said. “It’s over and you keep your motorcycle. There’s a valuable lesson here.”
“I thought it was a brotherhood,” Emilio said and Maria, the waitress approached with a plastic bag.
“I added extra salsa and tortillas,” she said, and her smile was extra bright. She placed her hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Can I get you anything?”
“Bring us two cups of coffee and some wheat toast,” Chance said. “There are lotsa types of brotherhoods, some good, some bad. You just dodged a bad one.”
Maria brought two thick ceramic coffee mugs stained from years of use and set them down. She poured them full of coffee from the Pyrex pot and dropped a half-dozen creamers on the slick table surface.
“You have some choices,” Chance said staring at Emilio. “You can try to straighten out your issue with that guy and end up in a dumpster in the desert. You can try to weasel your way back into the club and find yourself in a similar situation. You can go to war with him and find the whole clan after you, or you can chalk it up to bad choices and go to the gym, get strong and move on to a better place.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Emilio said still sort of dazed and trying to understand what happened to him.
“Two things,” Chance said. “That guy has done what he did to you before, to other guys. He’ll do it again in a month. A lot of guys can’t let it go. They don’t realize the outlaw’s life isn’t for them and they try to redeem themselves. These guys prey on guys like you. Some make a living doing what he did to you. He’d sell your motorcycle and party tomorrow.”
“But I wanted to be a brother and ride free,” Emilio sputtered.
“There are lots of brotherhoods,” Chance said. “They can all contain bad players. But some are geared more toward good. Try taking a martial arts class. Try being a loner for a while. Stay out of the bars where those guys hang out. If you start getting weak, call me. Chance gave him a card and wrote a number on the back.”
“Thanks,” Emilio said. He was a young strong kid but didn’t understand the evils of the streets. “Can I stay in touch.”
“Go see Sifu at the IMB academy,” Chance said. “He’ll teach you the correct way and make you strong. Now, go for a ride and give thanks for your freedom.”
“Yes sir,” Emilio said took a final gulp of coffee a piece of wheat toast and bolted for the door.
Chance walked outside and stood on the corner. Kate left her table inside and followed. Chance made his way to the abandoned newspaper machine and put his to-go bag on top and reached for his phone inside his vest. “What the hell are you back here for?”
“Another body floating in the marina,” Kate said. “What was that?”
“Don’t let anyone see me with you,” Chance said. “I made a good connection and a bad one.” He walked away as if ignoring her.
He knew there would be a 50-50 chance the green club would come looking for him. He knew he saved that kid’s life but at what cost to him. His relationship to the area just changed forever.
