As the summer sun glistened on the harbor, the warmth and clear days brought out additional Cantina customers. San Pedro city fathers cut a deal with the Los Angeles Harbor commissioners and the city of LA to allow the USS IOWA, a refurbished WWII battleship, to be permanently moored against nearby docks. Another draw to San Pedro flourished.
The Cantina clicked, drew a crowd, and the bodacious Nyla needed help. First she pitched Marko about hiring another bartender, then Bandit himself. Marko looked at the issue from a logistics perspective, while Bandit checked the receipts from the last two months, analyzed the business increase and acquiesced to her request.
“Start recruiting, but I’ll make the final decision,” Bandit barked, and disappeared into his upstairs office.
Nyla ran a classified ad and a myriad of colorful resumes poured in. Nyla labored over each entry, looking for dazzling biographies, long and fruitful work experience, award-winning training, and glowing references. She collected a stack of distinguished one-page employment requests on the slick bar top when a Dyna Glide rumbled up to the motorcycle-only parking and the kickstand snapped against the pavement.
In strolled a short, but long-in-the-tooth rider, who just had all of his 66-year-old teeth removed by the Veterans Hospital in Long Beach. His 45-year-old Vietnam based jaw-tooth infection, finally recognized by the VA, was being dealt with. A graybeard to the fluffy hairline at the back of his neck, Speedy, stood just 5’8” tall, slim and organized in all-black leather carting a pearl white and pinstriped full-face helmet.
“Can I get you something?” Nyla asked.
“Just a glass of ice water with a slice of lemon,” Speedy said.
“You got it,” Nyla smiled, and snatched a freshly scoured glass and filled it to the brim with crushed ice, water, and a fresh slice of lemon.
“What are you up to, delicious?” Speedy asked, his speech altered by the recent oral surgery.
“I’m looking for a back-up bartender.”
“I’ve got just the kid you need,” Speedy said. “This kid will kick anyone’s ass in the bartender department. Give him a call.” Speed wrote a number, under the name Brad, on a corner he tore off one of the resumes. He shoved the slip of paper across the polished counter, and then ordered a side of guacamole, some of the Chinaman’s special salsa and one chip. The chip was his spoon. He couldn’t eat them.
Nyla called Brad, since Speedy appeared to have his shit together, and that was rare. She wouldn’t give the slightest consideration to any recommendation from Cantina cliffhangers.
Another week sped passed, while she kicked off the interviewing process. Bandit had a strict rule—each serious candidate must be interviewed a minimum of three times. If the recipient failed before the third attempt, she grimly started the process over.
After working her ass off for another three weeks, Brad’s resume remained on the top of the pile. His bio and Nyla’s notes were carefully placed on Bandit’s desk for consideration. He didn’t hesitate to respond and interviewed the short young kid immediately, along with three other candidates. Brad passed, and was called in to have dinner, on the house, and receive his first work schedule.
He showed up with his lovely Japanese fiancée in tow. She was slender and initially delightful. He recently moved to Los Angeles from San Jose to afford his girl a shot at higher learning at UCLA after a stint in a bay area community college.
As the couple sat down in the most romantic Cantina booth, Mandy lit the single candle in the red glass decanter. Brad glowed with infatuation and Tina delivered menus. “This one is on the house,” she bubbled and took their drink order.
“I’ll have a double gold Cadillac Margarita,” the Japanese girl popped.
“I’ll take a Corona,” Brad said and smiled ear to ear, as his fiancée reached under the table and stroked his young thigh.
Marko noticed the seductive move as he approached the table. He spent some time in Japan in the post-Vietnam era, and the bar girls stroked his legs as they tried to launder his wallet. He learned quickly.
“I’m Marko,” the big man said and reached out to shake Brad’s hand. “Welcome onboard.” Out of respect, he shook Brad’s hand then reached across the table for the girl’s hand.
“This is Misaki,” Brad offered.
Misaki reached out to Marko, but her eyes did not immediately meet the big man’s direct gaze. She checked his ample crouch first, and then her eyes traveled up his muscular torso to his face. “It’s my pleasure,” she said and held his hand for a long, tender moment.
Marko noted the sexual overture, but turned his attention back to Brad. “It’s good to have you onboard,” Marko said. “Nyla is looking forward to the help behind the bar.”
“This place is the greatest,” Brad said. “Misaki and I are getting married this weekend, after my first shift.”
“Congratulations,” Marko said. “Enjoy your dinner.”
Misaki continued to assess Marko’s form, as he nodded to her with a slight bow and backed away from the table.
Marko made a beeline for the galley, where the Chinaman worked on an artistically laid out plate of his special nachos. He enjoyed the colorful pallet of vegetables, fruits, salsa and chips. He developed a talent for carefully arranging each element into an artistic array of condiments into a food sculpture.
“What do you make of the Japanese broad?” Marko asked the Chinaman.
“She’s hot, but she’s marrying the kid for a visa,” the Chinaman said, his back to the kitchen door brass porthole. “She’s trouble. It’s common for Japanese girls, and girls from Russia, to hook some guy for immigration purposes, and even to further their education, before blowing up the marriage. This one isn’t interested in higher education.”
Marko could never figure out how the Chinaman knew shit. He never left the kitchen, and the only window to the dinning room and bar was his swinging door porthole.
“How the hell did you figure all of this out in five minutes?” Marko inquired.
“It’s obvious,” the Chinaman said, and never turned around from his arduous task. In most cases, Mandy or Tina delivered steaming plates of nachos to tables packed with hungry patrons, who recognized the artistic talent for a half-second before devouring the carefully sculpted plate.
On Friday afternoon, Cantina action boiled, patrons packed the joint, and the rumble of motorcycles filled the parking lot. Brad and Misaki cuddled in the corner booth, nibbled on the Chinaman’s special shrimp cocktails, moved on to hearty entrees of crab enchiladas and an avocado and mole burrito, followed by fried ice cream desert and flan.
Misaki, the diminutive slender, lithe Japanese girl, with ample tits, wore a seductive low cut top and short-short skirt. Her milky skin was as soft as a cloud, and the rouge in her cheeks glistened, as she finished her third Margarita, and excused herself to use the head. She nudged his crotch with her slender hand.
Brad slipped out of the booth immediately, and allowed her to pass. His eyes gently caressed her every curve, as she straightened her skin-tight skirt. She was a human doll, with warm lips, and skin so soft, he almost melted every time he touched her. Brad had died and gone to heaven as soon as he met the traveling oriental, who quickly lured him into her sexual lair.
He could care less about anything. Dancing the jig on cloud nine, Brad was living the dream. He stumbled into the girl of his long sought-after fantasies, and then found himself with a job from heaven. He wasn’t a major catch, not a great looking guy, short, and not athletic. He was picked on as a kid, and never had as much as a date in high school. He couldn’t stop beaming.
He stumbled onto this Asian delight, and then found himself surrounded by a voluptuous bevy of Cantina knockouts who treated him like their long lost younger brother.
The Cantina was packed, the girls were busy, and Brad was full to the brim with the brew with his luck and glowing lust.
Misaki slithered to the head and did her duty, but on the way back to the romantic booth housing her betrothed, she took a side route to the left instead of the right, through the bar. Marko watched as the lovely, young, shapely Japanese girl slithered through the saloon, as if a high-dollar lure on the end of big game high-test line behind a sport-fishing yacht between the Los Angeles harbor and Catalina Island.
As she passed his security monitoring position, Marko stepped out of the shadows.
“Lost?” he asked, his gray eyes boring through her inebriated cloud.
“No,” she said, slightly caught off guard. The color in her soft as marshmallows, cheeks rose as her gaze lifted to meet the big man’s. “I’m never lost. Just testing the territory.”
She moved closer to Marko, until she leaned against him, and her small hand slipped up his inner thigh. “I could take good care of you,” she said.
“Take care of your fiancée,” Marko said and stepped back. “I don’t have the cash for your Kyabajo commission.”
She flushed red and stepped back.
“Maybe a dohan, at another time,” Marko added and she darted away. Marko pulled her number, as he mentioned Kyabajo girls, used in bars to bilk patrons of their cash by stroking their legs and cuddling with them until their pockets were empty. “Dohans,” were paid dates or escorts, often leading to sexual encounters. He watched her disappear into the crowded dining room. It would be interesting to see what might become of this relationship. He was concerned for the young Brad.
