A ’91 Chevy pickup screeched into the Cantina parking lot. It was bright red with traditional flames lapping over the hood and down the side of the cab. It was lowered and looked mean with dark tinted windows. Bandit jumped from the cab. He appeared agile for his age, although an old shoulder injury was inhibiting his work outs and a twisted knee from years of kick-start Harleys was clicking from time to time. “Marko, Gimme a hand.” He hollered and began to unload cases of booze from the bed of the truck. “Should be a big weekend.”
“I don’t know,” Marko said. “At one time a good shoot-out brought people around. Now, with these new guys, they run off.”
“Another shooting?” Bandit said setting the heavy case down. “Whatta ya make of it?”
“I’ve got my thoughts, but nothing concrete yet,” Marko said. “You know me, I’ve never been a snitch” Marko’s short salt and pepper hair was always a tad mussed. He trained constantly, did stunt work for the studios, and taught weapons use and artillery.
Just then Slick strolled out of the restaurant tucking in his shirt and heading toward his black Corvette.
Bandit looked at the empty parking lot ignoring the bartender who hadn’t been around that long. “We won’t last long this way,” he said. The big man with the salt and pepper goatee and thinning hair, had put all he had into the Cantina. He worked around the grounds constantly and lived up stairs. It was his last gasp, for something to keep his lifestyle alive and give him something to retire on. “How’s this new guy working out?” Bandit said loading cases of booze on the rusty dolly.
“He could be the problem,” Marko said watching as the skinny drug addict pulled along side of them, waved and peeled out of the parking lot…
