1) NOT KISSING FIRST.
Avoiding her lips and diving straight for the erogenous zones makes her feel like you’re paying by the hour & trying to get your money’s worth by cutting out non-essentials. A proper passionate kiss is the ultimate form of foreplay.

2) BLOWING TOO HARD IN HER EAR.
Well, there’s a difference between being erotic and blowing as if you’re trying to extinguish the candles on your birthday cake!

3) NOT SHAVING.
Guys often forget they have a porcupine strapped to their chins, which they rake repeatedly across their partner’s face and thighs. So when she turns her head from side to side, it’s not passion it’s avoidance!

4) SQUEEZING HER BREAST.
Most men act like a housewife testing melons for ripeness when they get their hands on a pair. Stroke, caress, and smooth them.

6) TWIDDLING HER NIPPLES.
Stop doing that thing where you twiddle the nipples between finger and thumb like you’re trying to find a radio station in a hilly area. Focus on the whole breasts, not just the exclamation points.

7) IGNORING THE OTHER PARTS OF HER BODY.
A woman is not a highway with just three turnoffs: Breastville East and West, and the Midtown Tunnel. There are vast areas of her body, which you’ve ignored far too often as you go bombing straight into downtown Vagina. So start paying them some attention!

8) GETTING THE HAND TRAPPED.
Poor manual dexterity in the underskirt region can result in tangled fingers and underpants. If you’re going to be that aggressive, just ask her to take the damn things off.

9) LEAVING HER A LITTLE PRESENT.
Condom disposal is the man’s responsibility. You wore it, you store it.

10) ATTACKING THE CLITORIS.
Direct pressure is very unpleasant, so gently rotate your fingers along side of the clitoris.

11) STOPPING FOR A BREAK.
Women, unlike men, don’t pick up where they left off. If you stop, they plummet back to square one very fast. If you can tell she’s not there, keep going at all costs, numb jaw or not.

12) UNDRESSING HER AWKWARDLY.
Women hate looking stupid, but stupid she will look when naked at the waist with a sweater stuck over her head. Unwrap her like an elegant present, not a kid’s toy.

13) GIVING HER A WEDGIE DURING FOREPLAY.
Stroking her gently through her panties can be very sexy. Pulling the material up between her thighs and yanking it back and forth is not.

14) BEING OBSESSED WITH THE VAGINA.
Although most men can find the clitoris without maps, they still believe that the vagina is where it’s all at. No sooner is your hand down there than you’re trying to stuff stolen banknotes up a chimney, which is OK in principle, but if you’re not careful, it can hurt – so don’t get carried away. Better to pay more attention to her clitoris and the exterior of her vagina at first, then gently slip a finger inside her and see if she likes it.

16) UNDRESSING PREMATURELY.
Don’t force the issue by stripping before she’s at least made some move toward getting your stuff off, even if it’s just undoing a couple of buttons.

17) TAKING YOUR PANTS OFF FIRST.
A man in socks and underpants is a at his worst. Lose the socks first.

18) GOING TOO FAST.
When you get to the penis-in-vagina situation, the worst thing you can do is pump away like an industrial power tool she’ll soon feel like an assembly-line worker made obsolete by your technology. Build up slowly, with clean, straight, regular thrusts.

19) GOING TOO HARD.
If you bash your great triangular hip bones into herthigh or stomach, the pain is equal to two weeks of horseback ridingconcentrated into a few seconds.

20) COMING TOO SOON.
Every man’s fear (with reason). If you shoot before you see the whites of her eyes, make sure you have a backup plan to ensure her pleasure too.

21) NOT COMING SOON ENOUGH.
You may think that humping for an hour without climaxing is the mark of a sexual weight-lifter , but to her it’s more likely the mark of a numb vagina. At least buy some intriguing wall hangings so she has something to hold her interest while you’re playing Marathon Man.

22) ASKING IF SHE HAS COME.
You really ought to be able to tell. Most women make noise. But if you really don’t know, don’t ask.

23) PERFORMING ORAL SEX TOO GENTLY.
Don’t act like a giant cat at saucer of milk. Get your whole mouth down there, and concentrate on gently rotating or flicking your tongue on her clitoris.

24) NUDGING HER HEAD DOWN.
Men persist in doing this until she’s eyeball-to-penis, hoping that it will lead very swiftly to mouth-to-penis. All women hate this. It’s about three steps from being dragged to a cave by their hair. If you want her to use her mouth, use yours; try talking seductively to her.

25) NOT WARNING HER BEFORE YOU CLIMAX.
Sperm tastes like seawater mixed with egg white. Not everybody likes it. When she’s performing oral sex, warn her before you come so she can do what’s necessary.

26) MOVING AROUND DURING FELLATIO.
Don’t thrust. She’ll do all the moving during fellatio. You just lie there and don’t grab her head.

27) TAKING ETIQUETTE ADVICE FROM PORN MOVIES.
In X-rated movies, women seem to love it when men ejaculate over them. In real life, it just means more laundry to do.

28) MAKING HER RIDE ON TOP FOR AGES.
Asking her to be on top is fine. Lying there grunting while she does all the hard work is not.Caress her gently, so that she doesn’t feel quite so much like the captain of a schooner. And let her have a rest.

29) ATTEMPTING ANAL SEX AND PRETENDING IT WAS AN ACCIDENT.
This is how men earn a reputation for not being able to follow directions. If you want to put it there, ask her first. And don’t think that being drunk is an excuse.

30) TAKING PICTURES.
When a man says, “Can I take a photo of you?” she’ll hear the words “__to show my buddies.” At least let her have custody of them.

31) NOT BEING IMAGINATIVE ENOUGH.
Imagination is anything from drawing patterns on her back to pouring honey on her and licking it off. Fruit, vegetables, ice and feathers are all handy props; hot candle wax and permanent dye are a no no.

32) SLAPPING YOUR STOMACH AGAINST HERS.
There is no less erotic noise. It’s as sexy as a belching contest.

33) ARRANGING HER IN STUPID POSES.
If she wants to do advanced yoga in bed, fine, but unless she’s a Romanian gymnast, don’t get too ambitious. Ask yourself if you want a sexual partner with snapped hamstrings.

34) LOOKING FOR HER PROSTATE.
Read this carefully: Anal stimulation feels good for men because they have a prostate. Women don’t.

35) GIVING LOVE BITES.
It is highly erotic to exert some gentle suction on the sides of the neck, if you do it carefully. No woman wants t have to wear turtlenecks and jaunty scarves for weeks on end.

 

37) TALKING DIRTY.
It makes you sound like a lonely magazine editor calling a 1-900 line. If she likes nasty talk, she’ll let you know.

38) NOT CARING WHETHER SHE COMES.
You have to finish the job. Keep on trying until you get it right, and she might even do the same for you.

39) SQUASHING HER.
Men generally weigh more than women, so if you lie on her a bit too heavily, she will turn blue.

40) THANKING HER.
Never thank a woman for having sex with you. Your bedroom is not a soup kitchen.

Bandit sent a copy of Sheila?s recorded tape to the slick drug dealer and told him to take a powder, and he did. He still needed to handle the girl. Marko and Frankie cornered her in the change room, tied her up and drug her into an SUV. Bandit knew a group of outlaws who lived in the desert. She was sent to entertain them in forced rehab center surroundings. He knew they were dealers, but they knew better than to use. They could handle addicts.

All seemed calm around Bandit?s Cantina for a short period. The little wiry Mexican living out back hassled Marko constantly with his notions of how to make the Cantina even more successful. ?I can show you,? Juan told Marko on a Sunday afternoon.

?Listen, goddamnit,? Marko said. Tomorrow were closed. I?ll be around, so show me.?

?Yes, sir,? Juan said grinning from ear to ear. He was a dealer of sorts, always working into people?s lives, twisting the angles. He was short and overweight, but had the looks of a circus clown. His dark eyes bulged brightly over a broad mustache spreading along his upper lip like a two lane highway. When he grinned it turned into a freeway.

Marko rolled out of the sack early Monday morning. He ran for five miles, ate scrambled eggs and leftover Mexican food in the Cantina galley and downed it with a fruit smoothie. He showered, dressed, checked his bike and read a new weapons magazine. As the afternoon lingered nail- biting incessant tapping, on his tin door, interrupted him. Juan was poised for action, grinning from ear to ear. ?Let?s go sir,? he said.

Marko rolled his stretched, by Jesse James, FXR chopper into the streets and fired her to life. He indicated for Juan to lead the way. Juan drove a mid ?80s faded Ford Explorer containing several giggling Mexican broads. They were cute, but Marko considered them miniature human beings.

The girls were dress to the Mexican nines. Their make- up was severe, with eyebrows drawn on shaved foreheads with magic markers. They weren?t midgets, just slight women less than 5 feet tall. Their curves were in all the right places, but they were small. Brothers would consider them spinners. Marko followed the smoking Explorer into Wilmington, the third world country between Long Beach and San Pedro. It was a small suburb of LA tucked behind Terminal Island and behind the Port of Los Angeles. The town was right on the water except the port owned all the seaside land and attempted to purchase anything remotely for sale in the area. So the people of San Pedro had a five-mile access to the coast, whereas the 95 percent Mexican population of Wilmington had access than 600 feet of waterfront. They were fucked.

There was nothing in Wilmington except methadone clinics, flophouses, bars, container parking lots and 18-wheelers whizzing in and out of town. At night Southern Pacific locomotives pulled mile long trains packed full of 40-foot shipping containers into downtown Los Angeles, a place called Vernon.

Juan pulled up in front of a small bar, no bigger than a stucco two-bedroom house, in the industrial section of Wilmington. It had a small vacant patio then a single story building that could have been a shed behind a truck parking lot. Marko couldn?t believe what he saw as he dismounted his modified, all black FXR, and followed Juan and the bubbly broads into Sis?s Bar.

First he was hit with the window-rattling sound of Mexican music, loud enough to set off car alarms a block away. The bar consisted of two, low ceiling, rooms. One was vacant except for a couple of empty tables, with plastic NFL blow-up helmets, floating above them. Marko was astonished. He was reaching the age of calm. This joint was the opposite. Everything flickered from the Budweiser neon signs, to the lights around the electronic dartboard, to the multiple screen television entertainment center.

The music blasted from an interactive jute box, while televisions displayed Insider TV programming, Donald Trump ads for a Property Wealth Expo in Los Angeles, then old Movie and TV stars would jump onto the screen for short moments, but you couldn?t hear a damn thing.

?This is happening,? Juan said. ?You can bring in your favorite songs and the Jute Box man will program it into the sound system. Look at all the TVs. That?s a plasma screen. And we need pool tables. You can make a grand a month on pool.?

Marko could only decipher half of what Juan screamed into his ear. He watched a bubbly white girl play a video games in the corner. She was trashy, but sexy in an open sweatshirt, with one of those elastic tube-tops, pulled over massive boobs. As she played, her top crept lower to reveal more of her creamy white tits. The pool table barely fit into the room. The gangsters around the table, an assortment of wicked characters, including Juan, the dealer, a white guy with coke-bottle-bottom glasses who overtly attempted to be a pool shark, but could only make half his shots, and an old man in bib overalls who was too drunk to see the table. They were heavy hitters.

Marko was beginning to lose it. He couldn?t focus, wanted to kick some ass and escape. The place was a loud mess of TV screens full of old actors and TV stars with caked on make-up. The noise was blistering. He couldn?t look at anyone, or get a conversation going without seeing Donald Trump shouting in the background, or Jane Fonda being interviewed. As he watched the TV, ?cause that?s all he could do, he noticed that people talked way too much and decide to hinder his practice. He motioned to Juan who followed him outside.

?Juan,? Marko said. ?You think this is a happening place??

?Yes sir,? Juan replied fervently.

?You?re fired,? Marko said. ?Stay here.?

Marko straddled his chopper and got the hell out of Wilmington.

Bandit sent a copy of Sheila?s recorded tape to the slick drug dealer and told him to take a powder, and he did. He still needed to handle the girl. Marko and Frankie cornered her in the change room, tied her up and drug her into an SUV. Bandit knew a group of outlaws who lived in the desert. She was sent to entertain them in forced rehab center surroundings. He knew they were dealers, but they knew better than to use. They could handle addicts.

All seemed calm around Bandit?s Cantina for a short period. The little wiry Mexican living out back hassled Marko constantly with his notions of how to make the Cantina even more successful. ?I can show you,? Juan told Marko on a Sunday afternoon.

?Listen, goddamnit,? Marko said. Tomorrow were closed. I?ll be around, so show me.?

?Yes, sir,? Juan said grinning from ear to ear. He was a dealer of sorts, always working into people?s lives, twisting the angles. He was short and overweight, but had the looks of a circus clown. His dark eyes bulged brightly over a broad mustache spreading along his upper lip like a two lane highway. When he grinned it turned into a freeway.

Marko rolled out of the sack early Monday morning. He ran for five miles, ate scrambled eggs and leftover Mexican food in the Cantina galley and downed it with a fruit smoothie. He showered, dressed, checked his bike and read a new weapons magazine. As the afternoon lingered nail- biting incessant tapping, on his tin door, interrupted him. Juan was poised for action, grinning from ear to ear. ?Let?s go sir,? he said.

Marko rolled his stretched, by Jesse James, FXR chopper into the streets and fired her to life. He indicated for Juan to lead the way. Juan drove a mid ?80s faded Ford Explorer containing several giggling Mexican broads. They were cute, but Marko considered them miniature human beings.

The girls were dress to the Mexican nines. Their make- up was severe, with eyebrows drawn on shaved foreheads with magic markers. They weren?t midgets, just slight women less than 5 feet tall. Their curves were in all the right places, but they were small. Brothers would consider them spinners. Marko followed the smoking Explorer into Wilmington, the third world country between Long Beach and San Pedro. It was a small suburb of LA tucked behind Terminal Island and behind the Port of Los Angeles. The town was right on the water except the port owned all the seaside land and attempted to purchase anything remotely for sale in the area. So the people of San Pedro had a five-mile access to the coast, whereas the 95 percent Mexican population of Wilmington had access than 600 feet of waterfront. They were fucked.

There was nothing in Wilmington except methadone clinics, flophouses, bars, container parking lots and 18-wheelers whizzing in and out of town. At night Southern Pacific locomotives pulled mile long trains packed full of 40-foot shipping containers into downtown Los Angeles, a place called Vernon.

Juan pulled up in front of a small bar, no bigger than a stucco two-bedroom house, in the industrial section of Wilmington. It had a small vacant patio then a single story building that could have been a shed behind a truck parking lot. Marko couldn?t believe what he saw as he dismounted his modified, all black FXR, and followed Juan and the bubbly broads into Sis?s Bar.

First he was hit with the window-rattling sound of Mexican music, loud enough to set off car alarms a block away. The bar consisted of two, low ceiling, rooms. One was vacant except for a couple of empty tables, with plastic NFL blow-up helmets, floating above them. Marko was astonished. He was reaching the age of calm. This joint was the opposite. Everything flickered from the Budweiser neon signs, to the lights around the electronic dartboard, to the multiple screen television entertainment center.

The music blasted from an interactive jute box, while televisions displayed Insider TV programming, Donald Trump ads for a Property Wealth Expo in Los Angeles, then old Movie and TV stars would jump onto the screen for short moments, but you couldn?t hear a damn thing.

?This is happening,? Juan said. ?You can bring in your favorite songs and the Jute Box man will program it into the sound system. Look at all the TVs. That?s a plasma screen. And we need pool tables. You can make a grand a month on pool.?

Marko could only decipher half of what Juan screamed into his ear. He watched a bubbly white girl play a video games in the corner. She was trashy, but sexy in an open sweatshirt, with one of those elastic tube-tops, pulled over massive boobs. As she played, her top crept lower to reveal more of her creamy white tits. The pool table barely fit into the room. The gangsters around the table, an assortment of wicked characters, including Juan, the dealer, a white guy with coke-bottle-bottom glasses who overtly attempted to be a pool shark, but could only make half his shots, and an old man in bib overalls who was too drunk to see the table. They were heavy hitters.

Marko was beginning to lose it. He couldn?t focus, wanted to kick some ass and escape. The place was a loud mess of TV screens full of old actors and TV stars with caked on make-up. The noise was blistering. He couldn?t look at anyone, or get a conversation going without seeing Donald Trump shouting in the background, or Jane Fonda being interviewed. As he watched the TV, ?cause that?s all he could do, he noticed that people talked way too much and decide to hinder his practice. He motioned to Juan who followed him outside.

?Juan,? Marko said. ?You think this is a happening place??

?Yes sir,? Juan replied fervently.

?You?re fired,? Marko said. ?Stay here.?

Marko straddled his chopper and got the hell out of Wilmington.

The Cantina was aglow with Christmas lights. The crowds were steady and the Cantina?s Christmas Party a wild hit. Marko looked over the parking lot with satisfaction and mild concern. He watched the Cantina business grow, but wasn?t sure he liked it. Ambition carried an ugly side, and he knew he?d come face to face with it. For the time being the holidays were warm and rosy.

The new girl, Sheila, flitted out of her car toward the employee entrance and glared at Marko. He wouldn?t afford her extra shifts and busted her hanging in the parking lot behind the restaurant, dealing meth.

Buster rolled into the parking lot on his hot rod Sportster, and parked it as close to the front door as possible. It was damn close to New Years as he slid up to the bar and ordered an O?Doul?s. He?d been clean and sober for five years. As a kid he ran with Los Angeles street gangs and almost pulled a felony beef at 16.

The early afternoon sun was still high in the sky as bubbly Nyla darted around the bar cleaning and restocking for the afternoon rush.

?Hey Buster,? Nyla said. ?What?s on your plate for 2006.?

Buster shuffled in his stool, dismayed and sipped at the icy beer. ?I don?t know,? Buster said. ?I?m sorta lost.?

Nyla wore her regular fluffy Mexican git-up that allowed her large soft breasts to dance at the edge of her areoles and tantalize all who watched her move. Everything about Nyla screamed sex, from her rosy lips and never-ending quirky smile, to those luscious tits and a soft as satin round ass that swayed as if a lure at the end of a fisherman?s line. ?Whatta ya mean,? Nyla bounced. ?What rocks yer boat??

?I?m pissed,? Buster said. ?I don?t git high anymore. I?ve got an ol? lady and a kid, so I can?t fool around and I?m too poor to do anything to pump my adrenaline except watch football or ride my bike fast. Shit, then I?ll get a ticket. It ain?t right.?

?I don?t get it,? Nyla said. ?Aren?t you satisfied with your life, your kids. Doesn?t mama rock your boat??

?It?s all mixed up,? Buster said as Nyla leaned over the deep sink and revealed a cleavage to die for. ?Look at you. I?d love to climb over this bar right now and do you on the deck. What rocks your boat, Nyla, teasing every guy and girl who walks in this joint??

?I?m not sure,? Nyla stammered and her cute round cheeks turn crimson.

?I?ve been doing some reading,? Buster said, ?And the doctors agree with my feelings. We?re tying men down. We?re monsters who need sex and the rush of adrenaline. You need shelter and comfort.?

?Wait a minute,? Nyla said, ?Is that true??

?Listen,? Buster said and the frustration rose in his voice. ?When I make love to a woman, I?m dancing along her skin, over those luscious curves, and down those silky thighs, without one thought of whether she?ll have a job tomorrow. Why the hell do you think some guy, who has a rich wife, runs off with the maid? Think about it. Why are you so happy here?

?You men are fulla shit,? Mandy said bouncing past Buster on the outside of the bar.

?They?re only fulla shit, until you land one,? Buster said. ?It?s the nemesis of woman, other women. But the competition is not the answer. We need to understand men and make safe sex available, so they don?t seduce other women, destroy marriages, families and attack young innocent girls.?

?What the fuck are you talking about,? Tina said and set her tray down on the long oak bar counter. Buster was surrounded.

?Women made prostitution illegal,? Buster said. ?What if a man could afford to get laid when he needed it, not when the wife was up for it. He?d be a happy camper, not run off with his secretary or attack some kid.?

?That?s bullshit,? Mandy said and Buster felt the female heat growing at his back.

Clay, the Cantina blues drunk looked up from his fifth Corona and blinked his half-shut eyes. He was as down as a flat tire and enjoyed groveling in his pity. He listened to the growing heat surrounding Buster until he could take it no more. ?It?s all about greed,? Clay slurred. ?Think about it. Men aren?t the only greedy sex. Women designed the trap, so you can only go to one for sex. How ridiculous is that??

?Shut up, Clay,? Tina said glaring at Clay and his line- up of empties.

?He?s right,? Buster said. ?Take me for instance. I?m married and have a couple of kids. I?m in a monogamous relationship. The old lady used me to have the kids. I?m not supposed to have sex with anyone else and only sex with her, when she?s up for it. She ain?t up for it very often with a job and two kids to handle. And my natural being could go for sex a couple of times a day.?

?Basically she eliminated any implied competition,? Clay muttered not wanting to raise the girls? ire, but defend a brother. ?She can get fat and still turn him down, because it?s against the monogamous creed to find an alternate sexual source.?

?Yeah,? Buster said feeling backed into a corner. ?Shit, most guys won?t talk about it in front of women. Don?t want to set ?em on fire to destroy their chances.?

?We do it for the kids, the family structure,? Tina said and gathered her drink order.

?It?s in direct conflict with the Sherman Antitrust Act,? Clay said. ?It?s against the law to outlaw the competition.?

Buster ignored Clay?s intellect. He didn?t know Antitrust Acts from parking tickets. ?So if someone said you can?t have kids because the population was out of hand,? Buster commented to Tina. ?Would you just ignore your natural inclination?? Buster wasn?t a dummy, and he was hell bent to make his point. Besides he was as horny as a mountain goat after the spring thaw.

?It?s ridiculous,? Clay chimed in. ?Look at how you?re dressed. ?You?re living, breathing, towers of temptation. You even smell good enough to eat.?

Nyla was getting aroused. Her cheeks were flushed as she watched Tina and Mandy circle in on Buster, their tits heaving against their light blouses.

Marko, patrolling the premises strolled past on occasion and checked out the action. ?Back to your stations, Ladies,? Marko ordered watching Sheila work a particular booth in a dark corner full of blacks in suits. They wore enough bling to make an Arabian Sheik proud. They might as well silk screen Drug Dealers across their backs. Sheila made runs to their tables, then to others in the dining area. Then the suits disappeared. Later in the evening they returned.

Marko noted that the restrooms had longer lines than the ATM, and the ATM machine ran out of cash more often. Drink orders increased, but food orders diminished. The chat throughout the dining room heightened and a new crowd filed in. Couple of older bikers looked at Marko with knowing grins, stares and some contempt.

Frankie showed up in the early evening on his bicycle and parked it out back. ?What?s with those Mexican folks,? he said in his contemptuous, longing manner. Frankie was getting old. A retired street urchin, he?d lived in alleys most of his life as an alcoholic and drug addict. The bastard was fried. All he knew was what hit him in the eyes. He never thought beyond the surface, but still he had a good heart and cared about his surroundings. Trouble was he?d polish a car as it was towed to the junkyard. ?Those people live out back. I?ve worked here longer, where?s my digs??

Marko looked down at the baseball mitt leathery face and shook his head. He watched a couple tip Sheila a twenty after buying two glasses of wine and the argument building around the bar. He knew about the growing family of illegal aliens taking up residence behind the Cantina. He thought about the letter he received in the morning mail recruiting him to run a security operation on the outskirts of Baghdad. He could make 25 grand a month, easy, but it was dangerous duty?that enticed him.

His buzzer went off and he unsnapped his walkie- talkie from his waistband. ?Luna,? Marko said, ?What?s up??

?This limo has made three trips and the sun ain?t down,? Luna said and watched the limo make a drop and cruise out of the parking lot.

?Thanks,? Marko said. Let me know when they return. Ballsy bunch. They must be hurtin? for locations.?

?There was a major bust across town, last week,? Luna said.

?You don?t say,? Marko said?

Sheila looked hot, the only bodacious blonde in the joint, dropping a couple of dime baggies on a table, in the open, as she sold some. Mandy spotted the loose transaction. ?You better be careful cutie,? Mandy said. ?The boss don?t go for drug dealing here.?

?I?m protected,? Sheila, said and her store-bought titties bounced unhampered under her blouse. ?I can do whatever I want. I?m fuckin? golden.? Tweakin? she looked at Mandy like a hungry bitch. ?What are you doing later? I?m bi ya know?? She started to walk toward Mandy seductively swaying her hips. No doubt, she was as hot as a firecracker with a quarter fuse.

An hour passed. During happy hour the long shore man crowd came and went with their supply of speed for the night shift and a new crowd replaced them while Charlie Brechtal?s band set up and started filling the night with biker tunes and the blues. They had a particularly hot tune called the 5-Ball blues about broads and marriage that hit home with a lot of bikers. Even married broads liked the lyrics and kidded their old men.

The red buzzer went off for the first time all year under Nyla?s bar top. She picked up the red phone, ?Yes sir,? she said respectfully in the receiver. She hung up within a couple of seconds and motioned for Sheila to come to the bar. ?The boss wants you upstairs.?

?I?ve never met him,? Sheila said staring at Nyla?s big bubbly tits. She was buzzed. ?What?s he like? Will he order me to blow him? I could have him fucked up.? Sheila was on a roll.

Nyla just shook her head then pointed toward the stairs. ?Set your tray down here. I?ll watch your ticket book. Now git.?

Sheila knocked on the thick oak door with a brass porthole mounted at eye level. ?Come in,? a deep voice ordered.

Sheila walked into the large open apartment and immediately saw Bandit standing behind his Panhead desk. He was 6?5?, but she couldn?t make out his face. He was just big in the darkness. He sat down and started working on his computer. She couldn?t make him out in the darkness and his desk lamp was pointed at her. She could see the light of the harbor behind him through the big glass window, but nothing in-between. ?Sit down,? Bandit said.

?What can I do for you,? Sheila said and began to babble. ?I like it here, but I could go anywhere and make twice as much money. You know, San Pedro ain?t the most happening berg in LA. Shit, it?s the only harbor dump around. I could go to Long Beach or back to Hollywood.?

?Would you like a line,? Bandit said and pushed a small mirror in her direction with a three-inch solid gold straw tinkling against the glass as it rolled.

?Sure,? Sheila said and bent over the glass desk revealing her overt cleavage, her blue eyes sparkling in the reflection off the mirror and glass. The speed was strong and bit at the back of her nostrils, then dripped down the back of her neck.

?What do you drink,? Bandit asked and turned toward his bar?

?I like Lemon-Drop martinis,? Sheila said, ? and gold Cadillac Margaritas.

?How about Chevas on the rocks,? Bandit interrupted?

?That?s fine,? Sheila said and tried to shut up, but couldn?t. ?What?s up? Did someone tell you that I?m dealing? Yeah, so what. People dealin? all over town. You don?t have a problem with it do you? I?m afraid I can?t do anything about it. I got debts and a bad ass boss??

?Who?s your boss,? Bandit interrupted again?

?You know, don?t you,? Sheila said? ?He?s Dwight. He controls this entire area.?

?He doesn?t control me,? Bandit said. ?If I?m going to have drug dealing in my Gin Joint, I want to make the profit. You?re an aspiring entrepreneur and seem to know what you?re doing. Let?s be partners.?

?But what about Dwight,? Sheila stammered. ?I owe him a couple of grand.?

?What?s he get from you for that money,? Bandit asked?

?He makes me blow him sometimes or some of his guys,? Sheila said calmly. ?I have to give him all the money I make each night selling speed and he gives me a little bit back.?

?Is that fair,? Bandit asked? ?Haven?t you paid your debt? A good-looking girl would get paid $400 just for a blowjob. How many joints is he working like this??

?You?re right,? Sheila said, ?I?m getting ripped off, but he?ll kill me if I fuck up. He?s running meth out of the Blue Caf? in Long Beach, the Cabaret in Wilmington and another strip joint in Wilmington.?

?What if I can get him off your back,? Bandit said?

?I?ll do anything you want,? Sheila said. ?I?ll fuck you everyday and sell anything you want. But I got a habit. You?ll have to keep me going.?

?Can you keep your mouth shut for 24 hours,? Bandit said standing up? ?I?ll take care of it, and get back to you.?

Sheila stood up abruptly. There were tears in her eyes. She looked across the desk at the dark figure and pulled her top down. Her tits were perfect store-bought giants. ?I got these a year ago,? she said. ?I lost some feeling so I sued the doctor. He tore up his bill, but the feeling came back. Wanta touch ?em??

They were sloped perfectly and her nipples seemed to dance enticingly as if reaching for Bandit. ?Let?s take care of business first,? Bandit said and indicated the door. ?They?re beautiful, though. I?m sure we can have some fun down the road.?

She felt rejected until he murmured his last words and she pulled up her top, smiled and wiped her eyes.

?Freshen your make-up,? Bandit said, ?before you hit the dining room again. Remember what I said. Nothing about this to anyone, right??

?Yes, thank you,? Sheila said and let herself out.

The Cantina was aglow with Christmas lights. The crowds were steady and the Cantina?s Christmas Party a wild hit. Marko looked over the parking lot with satisfaction and mild concern. He watched the Cantina business grow, but wasn?t sure he liked it. Ambition carried an ugly side, and he knew he?d come face to face with it. For the time being the holidays were warm and rosy.

The new girl, Sheila, flitted out of her car toward the employee entrance and glared at Marko. He wouldn?t afford her extra shifts and busted her hanging in the parking lot behind the restaurant, dealing meth.

Buster rolled into the parking lot on his hot rod Sportster, and parked it as close to the front door as possible. It was damn close to New Years as he slid up to the bar and ordered an O?Doul?s. He?d been clean and sober for five years. As a kid he ran with Los Angeles street gangs and almost pulled a felony beef at 16.

The early afternoon sun was still high in the sky as bubbly Nyla darted around the bar cleaning and restocking for the afternoon rush.

?Hey Buster,? Nyla said. ?What?s on your plate for 2006.?

Buster shuffled in his stool, dismayed and sipped at the icy beer. ?I don?t know,? Buster said. ?I?m sorta lost.?

Nyla wore her regular fluffy Mexican git-up that allowed her large soft breasts to dance at the edge of her areoles and tantalize all who watched her move. Everything about Nyla screamed sex, from her rosy lips and never-ending quirky smile, to those luscious tits and a soft as satin round ass that swayed as if a lure at the end of a fisherman?s line. ?Whatta ya mean,? Nyla bounced. ?What rocks yer boat??

?I?m pissed,? Buster said. ?I don?t git high anymore. I?ve got an ol? lady and a kid, so I can?t fool around and I?m too poor to do anything to pump my adrenaline except watch football or ride my bike fast. Shit, then I?ll get a ticket. It ain?t right.?

?I don?t get it,? Nyla said. ?Aren?t you satisfied with your life, your kids. Doesn?t mama rock your boat??

?It?s all mixed up,? Buster said as Nyla leaned over the deep sink and revealed a cleavage to die for. ?Look at you. I?d love to climb over this bar right now and do you on the deck. What rocks your boat, Nyla, teasing every guy and girl who walks in this joint??

?I?m not sure,? Nyla stammered and her cute round cheeks turn crimson.

?I?ve been doing some reading,? Buster said, ?And the doctors agree with my feelings. We?re tying men down. We?re monsters who need sex and the rush of adrenaline. You need shelter and comfort.?

?Wait a minute,? Nyla said, ?Is that true??

?Listen,? Buster said and the frustration rose in his voice. ?When I make love to a woman, I?m dancing along her skin, over those luscious curves, and down those silky thighs, without one thought of whether she?ll have a job tomorrow. Why the hell do you think some guy, who has a rich wife, runs off with the maid? Think about it. Why are you so happy here?

?You men are fulla shit,? Mandy said bouncing past Buster on the outside of the bar.

?They?re only fulla shit, until you land one,? Buster said. ?It?s the nemesis of woman, other women. But the competition is not the answer. We need to understand men and make safe sex available, so they don?t seduce other women, destroy marriages, families and attack young innocent girls.?

?What the fuck are you talking about,? Tina said and set her tray down on the long oak bar counter. Buster was surrounded.

?Women made prostitution illegal,? Buster said. ?What if a man could afford to get laid when he needed it, not when the wife was up for it. He?d be a happy camper, not run off with his secretary or attack some kid.?

?That?s bullshit,? Mandy said and Buster felt the female heat growing at his back.

Clay, the Cantina blues drunk looked up from his fifth Corona and blinked his half-shut eyes. He was as down as a flat tire and enjoyed groveling in his pity. He listened to the growing heat surrounding Buster until he could take it no more. ?It?s all about greed,? Clay slurred. ?Think about it. Men aren?t the only greedy sex. Women designed the trap, so you can only go to one for sex. How ridiculous is that??

?Shut up, Clay,? Tina said glaring at Clay and his line- up of empties.

?He?s right,? Buster said. ?Take me for instance. I?m married and have a couple of kids. I?m in a monogamous relationship. The old lady used me to have the kids. I?m not supposed to have sex with anyone else and only sex with her, when she?s up for it. She ain?t up for it very often with a job and two kids to handle. And my natural being could go for sex a couple of times a day.?

?Basically she eliminated any implied competition,? Clay muttered not wanting to raise the girls? ire, but defend a brother. ?She can get fat and still turn him down, because it?s against the monogamous creed to find an alternate sexual source.?

?Yeah,? Buster said feeling backed into a corner. ?Shit, most guys won?t talk about it in front of women. Don?t want to set ?em on fire to destroy their chances.?

?We do it for the kids, the family structure,? Tina said and gathered her drink order.

?It?s in direct conflict with the Sherman Antitrust Act,? Clay said. ?It?s against the law to outlaw the competition.?

Buster ignored Clay?s intellect. He didn?t know Antitrust Acts from parking tickets. ?So if someone said you can?t have kids because the population was out of hand,? Buster commented to Tina. ?Would you just ignore your natural inclination?? Buster wasn?t a dummy, and he was hell bent to make his point. Besides he was as horny as a mountain goat after the spring thaw.

?It?s ridiculous,? Clay chimed in. ?Look at how you?re dressed. ?You?re living, breathing, towers of temptation. You even smell good enough to eat.?

Nyla was getting aroused. Her cheeks were flushed as she watched Tina and Mandy circle in on Buster, their tits heaving against their light blouses.

Marko, patrolling the premises strolled past on occasion and checked out the action. ?Back to your stations, Ladies,? Marko ordered watching Sheila work a particular booth in a dark corner full of blacks in suits. They wore enough bling to make an Arabian Sheik proud. They might as well silk screen Drug Dealers across their backs. Sheila made runs to their tables, then to others in the dining area. Then the suits disappeared. Later in the evening they returned.

Marko noted that the restrooms had longer lines than the ATM, and the ATM machine ran out of cash more often. Drink orders increased, but food orders diminished. The chat throughout the dining room heightened and a new crowd filed in. Couple of older bikers looked at Marko with knowing grins, stares and some contempt.

Frankie showed up in the early evening on his bicycle and parked it out back. ?What?s with those Mexican folks,? he said in his contemptuous, longing manner. Frankie was getting old. A retired street urchin, he?d lived in alleys most of his life as an alcoholic and drug addict. The bastard was fried. All he knew was what hit him in the eyes. He never thought beyond the surface, but still he had a good heart and cared about his surroundings. Trouble was he?d polish a car as it was towed to the junkyard. ?Those people live out back. I?ve worked here longer, where?s my digs??

Marko looked down at the baseball mitt leathery face and shook his head. He watched a couple tip Sheila a twenty after buying two glasses of wine and the argument building around the bar. He knew about the growing family of illegal aliens taking up residence behind the Cantina. He thought about the letter he received in the morning mail recruiting him to run a security operation on the outskirts of Baghdad. He could make 25 grand a month, easy, but it was dangerous duty?that enticed him.

His buzzer went off and he unsnapped his walkie- talkie from his waistband. ?Luna,? Marko said, ?What?s up??

?This limo has made three trips and the sun ain?t down,? Luna said and watched the limo make a drop and cruise out of the parking lot.

?Thanks,? Marko said. Let me know when they return. Ballsy bunch. They must be hurtin? for locations.?

?There was a major bust across town, last week,? Luna said.

?You don?t say,? Marko said?

Sheila looked hot, the only bodacious blonde in the joint, dropping a couple of dime baggies on a table, in the open, as she sold some. Mandy spotted the loose transaction. ?You better be careful cutie,? Mandy said. ?The boss don?t go for drug dealing here.?

?I?m protected,? Sheila, said and her store-bought titties bounced unhampered under her blouse. ?I can do whatever I want. I?m fuckin? golden.? Tweakin? she looked at Mandy like a hungry bitch. ?What are you doing later? I?m bi ya know?? She started to walk toward Mandy seductively swaying her hips. No doubt, she was as hot as a firecracker with a quarter fuse.

An hour passed. During happy hour the long shore man crowd came and went with their supply of speed for the night shift and a new crowd replaced them while Charlie Brechtal?s band set up and started filling the night with biker tunes and the blues. They had a particularly hot tune called the 5-Ball blues about broads and marriage that hit home with a lot of bikers. Even married broads liked the lyrics and kidded their old men.

The red buzzer went off for the first time all year under Nyla?s bar top. She picked up the red phone, ?Yes sir,? she said respectfully in the receiver. She hung up within a couple of seconds and motioned for Sheila to come to the bar. ?The boss wants you upstairs.?

?I?ve never met him,? Sheila said staring at Nyla?s big bubbly tits. She was buzzed. ?What?s he like? Will he order me to blow him? I could have him fucked up.? Sheila was on a roll.

Nyla just shook her head then pointed toward the stairs. ?Set your tray down here. I?ll watch your ticket book. Now git.?

Sheila knocked on the thick oak door with a brass porthole mounted at eye level. ?Come in,? a deep voice ordered.

Sheila walked into the large open apartment and immediately saw Bandit standing behind his Panhead desk. He was 6?5?, but she couldn?t make out his face. He was just big in the darkness. He sat down and started working on his computer. She couldn?t make him out in the darkness and his desk lamp was pointed at her. She could see the light of the harbor behind him through the big glass window, but nothing in-between. ?Sit down,? Bandit said.

?What can I do for you,? Sheila said and began to babble. ?I like it here, but I could go anywhere and make twice as much money. You know, San Pedro ain?t the most happening berg in LA. Shit, it?s the only harbor dump around. I could go to Long Beach or back to Hollywood.?

?Would you like a line,? Bandit said and pushed a small mirror in her direction with a three-inch solid gold straw tinkling against the glass as it rolled.

?Sure,? Sheila said and bent over the glass desk revealing her overt cleavage, her blue eyes sparkling in the reflection off the mirror and glass. The speed was strong and bit at the back of her nostrils, then dripped down the back of her neck.

?What do you drink,? Bandit asked and turned toward his bar?

?I like Lemon-Drop martinis,? Sheila said, ? and gold Cadillac Margaritas.

?How about Chevas on the rocks,? Bandit interrupted?

?That?s fine,? Sheila said and tried to shut up, but couldn?t. ?What?s up? Did someone tell you that I?m dealing? Yeah, so what. People dealin? all over town. You don?t have a problem with it do you? I?m afraid I can?t do anything about it. I got debts and a bad ass boss??

?Who?s your boss,? Bandit interrupted again?

?You know, don?t you,? Sheila said? ?He?s Dwight. He controls this entire area.?

?He doesn?t control me,? Bandit said. ?If I?m going to have drug dealing in my Gin Joint, I want to make the profit. You?re an aspiring entrepreneur and seem to know what you?re doing. Let?s be partners.?

?But what about Dwight,? Sheila stammered. ?I owe him a couple of grand.?

?What?s he get from you for that money,? Bandit asked?

?He makes me blow him sometimes or some of his guys,? Sheila said calmly. ?I have to give him all the money I make each night selling speed and he gives me a little bit back.?

?Is that fair,? Bandit asked? ?Haven?t you paid your debt? A good-looking girl would get paid $400 just for a blowjob. How many joints is he working like this??

?You?re right,? Sheila said, ?I?m getting ripped off, but he?ll kill me if I fuck up. He?s running meth out of the Blue Caf? in Long Beach, the Cabaret in Wilmington and another strip joint in Wilmington.?

?What if I can get him off your back,? Bandit said?

?I?ll do anything you want,? Sheila said. ?I?ll fuck you everyday and sell anything you want. But I got a habit. You?ll have to keep me going.?

?Can you keep your mouth shut for 24 hours,? Bandit said standing up? ?I?ll take care of it, and get back to you.?

Sheila stood up abruptly. There were tears in her eyes. She looked across the desk at the dark figure and pulled her top down. Her tits were perfect store-bought giants. ?I got these a year ago,? she said. ?I lost some feeling so I sued the doctor. He tore up his bill, but the feeling came back. Wanta touch ?em??

They were sloped perfectly and her nipples seemed to dance enticingly as if reaching for Bandit. ?Let?s take care of business first,? Bandit said and indicated the door. ?They?re beautiful, though. I?m sure we can have some fun down the road.?

She felt rejected until he murmured his last words and she pulled up her top, smiled and wiped her eyes.

?Freshen your make-up,? Bandit said, ?before you hit the dining room again. Remember what I said. Nothing about this to anyone, right??

?Yes, thank you,? Sheila said and let herself out.

The wind whipped up around the old rusting ?59 Cadillac rotting on a half-acre of sand, outside Indio, near the Coachella Valley. Bandit remembered back in the ?70s when outlaws were at war after the Indio run in the desert. Sheila dried out sequestered in the adjacent sand blasted mobile home. A crew of old club members, who dealt coke in San Bernardino, and knew what to do with an addict, took on the rehab duties. Sheila lucked into one final chance to straighten out her feeble existence. Most, fucked up and were buried in shallow graves between LA and Vegas. Sheila was given another shot, by the delicate flesh holding those massive tits against her chest. Her black boss seriously considered making lampshades outta her tattooed knockers and throwing the rest of her useless carcass in the Pacific.

For over a month she was chained to a bed, where she whimpered and offered blowjobs for a line or a rusty needle. She didn?t give a fuck She wasn?t much to look after a couple of weeks. Restricted from showers, she was even monitored as she used the head. The brothers set up 24-hour surveillance in the sand-bound mobile home, teetering in the desert wind. There was nowhere to run or hide. If she escaped, which she attempted desperately, she?d perish in the desert long before reaching a chain link fence or public roads. Rattlesnakes woulda slowed her progress; brown recluse spiders destroyed her soft skin and tarantulas, desert scorpions, rats and coyotes woulda picked her bones clean.

She sat on the edge of the steel, angle-iron bed drenched in sweat and soiled clothes and wondered what the fuck was happening to her. The bikers roamed through like clockwork, every four hours. Most never spoke to her. Some brought her magazines and Mexican food. Although there were no clocks in the dank rattletrap, she knew immediately when another guard was headed for duty. She heard the rumble of a chopper in the distance, like her freedom train flying through a canyon. Only it replaced her current sentry and another freedom machine sped away. For weeks she babbled to her captures.

At first, her angry tone made threats on deaf ears through reddening eyes. She said she was connected, she could pay and she could fuck. Then she gave in to begging and pleading throughout the night. She tormented herself and her captors. She scratched herself and tried to cut her wrists on the edge of the bed.

After a month the drug?s hold on her brain and nervous system diminished. The compulsion slipped and her appetite returned. She sat on the edge of the bed and finished a carne asada burrito and looked outside for the first time in six weeks. She could see bare desert mountains in the distance and a bright blue sky. Then she heard another chopper, but couldn?t see it coming. ?How far is the highway,? she asked the biker in the corner of the tin home with his boots propped against the wall, while he read a HORSE magazine and drank a beer from the rattling icebox.

He turned toward her, surprised. They were the first civil words out of her mouth in two months. ??Bout 25 miles,? He said pulling on his long goatee. ?Why??

?Are you going to make me walk outta here??

?No, Bandit will come and get you,? He said. ?You?ve still got a job at the Cantina. And you better respect that. He paid for your recovery.?

?What woulda happened,? she asked tentatively?

A loud locomotive of a scooter pulled up out front. The crisp exhaust note interrupted their conversation and the brother in the tattered brown vest and cowboy boots got to his feet. ?It?s Rip,? he said heading toward the door.

She noted the respect in his tone as he pulled his long sandy blonde hair into a ponytail and dusted off his shirt. He looked around the sun-bleached interior, put his magazine away and threw the empty beer can in the trash.

The door burst open and a big man marched inside.

?Hey Rip,? The young rider said.

The young rider didn?t hesitate, but nodded, picked up his leather and headed toward the squeaky front door. ?She didn?t gimme no grief,? He said.

?Who the fuck cares,? Rip said. ?She?s a piece of shit. Shut the door behind you.? He threw his black leather jacket and club vest on the couch and headed toward the kitchen. He yanked open the fridge, looked around and slammed it. ?Fuck, no beer.?

He grabbed his vest, jerked a stainless flask out of an inside pocket and took a swig. He slammed the flask on the coffee table and kicked back. ?This is bullshit,? he muttered under his breath.

?What is,? Sheila said and immediately knew the statement was a big mistake.

Rip sneered at her, as if his gaze would sear right through her recuperating brain. ?Fuckin? drug addict, chick. You?re not worth the powder to blow you to hell.? He took another long swig on his flask and slammed it so hard on the coffee table, the short wooden legs gave and the top bowed. ?You know your boss wanted you killed,? he said and stood up?

?No,? She said and looked around the room as if someone might come to her aid. ?He wouldn?t do that??

Rip stepped across the room quickly with heavy footsteps, and slapped her so hard it blackened her right eye and bloodied her nose. ?Fuck he wouldn?t, bitch,? Rip said. ?Why not, because you have a tight pussy and give good blowjobs??

?Well,? Sheila nearly agreed when Rip hit her again. For the first time terror struck her core. She had always got away with murder, because of her looks and sexual prowess. A couple of guys pushed her around some, but she was always owned by the big guy and protected. Suddenly that security was fleeting.

?This whole deal is bullshit,? Rip said. ?We don?t need you, or your kind around here.? He yanked a heavy set of keys off his belt loop and unlocked the chains to her bed. Yanking her to her feet, he ripped open her blouse and tore it off her body, slicing her arms.

?What are you doing,? she whimpered? For brief seconds, she thought he might fuck her and she was relieved. Then it struck her that sex wasn?t his intention.

?We should done this the first week you were here,? Rip said and tore away her dress and punched her in the stomach. She buckled and puked on the floor.

?Clean it up with your clothes,? Rip barked, and she moved quickly.

Rip yanked the chains and drug her towards the door. She couldn?t crawl. The chains were shackled to her wrists. ?Please,? she pleaded. She sensed that she was in treacherous trouble.

Rip ignored her tears and drug her out the front door, down the steps into the gravel. She screamed, rolling to her side, but no one heard. The gravel tore at her flesh as he drug her across the walk into the desert beyond. At first the sand felt soft, but it burned and thorns from tumbleweed stung her flesh. She jolted as a scorpion, disturbed by Rip kicking a chunk of wood, scrambled across the sand looking for a new shelter. It?s poisonous tail snapped at the unknown intruder.

?That fuckin? Bandit,? Rip muttered pulling her chains toward the back of the mobile home, past abandoned car hulks and junk red with rust fading into the sand. He kicked her in the ribs and yanked on the chain until her wrists reached up his waistband. ?He doesn?t need you. You?ll jump on the drug wagon again, lose your looks and probably be a lousy waitress. Get the fuck out.? Rip unlocked the chains and tossed them in the sand. ?You?re free to go.?

?But clothes,? she said quivering? Night descended on the desert and blistering heat turned to bitter cold. She stood up completely naked in the sand, her harms wrapped around her torso in some effort to conceal and protect.

?Why,? Rip snapped? ?You don?t care about yourself, why should we??

She stood up and looked around. The little San Bernardino Mountains were 20 miles in the distance. She knew she had no skills at survival. A tear crept down the side of her face.

?There?s a running Sportster in that shed,? Rip said. ?It?s a kicker but you can take it.?

She limped to the shed, pulled open the doors and started in. It was covered in nasty cobwebs and suddenly she recognized her inabilities. She could no-more start it than she could make clothes to survive in.

Sheila?s desperate state began to engulf her. She never felt so lost, uncertain and unskillful. She collapsed in the sand and Rip lifted her to her feet and walked her back into the mobile home. She scrambled to wrap herself in a blanket.

?Are you ready to learn??

?If I don?t I won?t survive,? Sheila said. She flopped on her bed exhausted.

?Shut the fuck up. I?m going home,? Rip said. ?You?re alone now, in the desert. We?re done with you. You?re free to leave.? Rip pulled on his black beard and pointed north. ?Las Vegas is about 250 miles due north of here. The first town is 25 miles south.?

?But what about Bandit,? Sheila whimpered?

?The bastard will come for you,? Rip said, ?but I don?t know when.? He pulled on his heavy jacket. ?I don?t know what gets into that guy.? He opened a cupboard and tossed a book at her.

She sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the book, The Diary of Ann Frank. She thought she knew of the title, but it didn?t ring a bell.

Rip stormed out the front door and slammed it. He mounted his black Evo, fired it to life, rattling the cheap mobile homes windows with his sharp exhaust. He dropped it in gear and spewed sand and gravel all over the front of the aluminum siding, then blasted down the drive. Suddenly the night was as quiet as a tomb. She opened the book and began to read.

The wind whipped up around the old rusting ?59 Cadillac rotting on a half-acre of sand, outside Indio, near the Coachella Valley. Bandit remembered back in the ?70s when outlaws were at war after the Indio run in the desert. Sheila dried out sequestered in the adjacent sand blasted mobile home. A crew of old club members, who dealt coke in San Bernardino, and knew what to do with an addict, took on the rehab duties. Sheila lucked into one final chance to straighten out her feeble existence. Most, fucked up and were buried in shallow graves between LA and Vegas. Sheila was given another shot, by the delicate flesh holding those massive tits against her chest. Her black boss seriously considered making lampshades outta her tattooed knockers and throwing the rest of her useless carcass in the Pacific.

For over a month she was chained to a bed, where she whimpered and offered blowjobs for a line or a rusty needle. She didn?t give a fuck She wasn?t much to look after a couple of weeks. Restricted from showers, she was even monitored as she used the head. The brothers set up 24-hour surveillance in the sand-bound mobile home, teetering in the desert wind. There was nowhere to run or hide. If she escaped, which she attempted desperately, she?d perish in the desert long before reaching a chain link fence or public roads. Rattlesnakes woulda slowed her progress; brown recluse spiders destroyed her soft skin and tarantulas, desert scorpions, rats and coyotes woulda picked her bones clean.

She sat on the edge of the steel, angle-iron bed drenched in sweat and soiled clothes and wondered what the fuck was happening to her. The bikers roamed through like clockwork, every four hours. Most never spoke to her. Some brought her magazines and Mexican food. Although there were no clocks in the dank rattletrap, she knew immediately when another guard was headed for duty. She heard the rumble of a chopper in the distance, like her freedom train flying through a canyon. Only it replaced her current sentry and another freedom machine sped away. For weeks she babbled to her captures.

At first, her angry tone made threats on deaf ears through reddening eyes. She said she was connected, she could pay and she could fuck. Then she gave in to begging and pleading throughout the night. She tormented herself and her captors. She scratched herself and tried to cut her wrists on the edge of the bed.

After a month the drug?s hold on her brain and nervous system diminished. The compulsion slipped and her appetite returned. She sat on the edge of the bed and finished a carne asada burrito and looked outside for the first time in six weeks. She could see bare desert mountains in the distance and a bright blue sky. Then she heard another chopper, but couldn?t see it coming. ?How far is the highway,? she asked the biker in the corner of the tin home with his boots propped against the wall, while he read a HORSE magazine and drank a beer from the rattling icebox.

He turned toward her, surprised. They were the first civil words out of her mouth in two months. ??Bout 25 miles,? He said pulling on his long goatee. ?Why??

?Are you going to make me walk outta here??

?No, Bandit will come and get you,? He said. ?You?ve still got a job at the Cantina. And you better respect that. He paid for your recovery.?

?What woulda happened,? she asked tentatively?

A loud locomotive of a scooter pulled up out front. The crisp exhaust note interrupted their conversation and the brother in the tattered brown vest and cowboy boots got to his feet. ?It?s Rip,? he said heading toward the door.

She noted the respect in his tone as he pulled his long sandy blonde hair into a ponytail and dusted off his shirt. He looked around the sun-bleached interior, put his magazine away and threw the empty beer can in the trash.

The door burst open and a big man marched inside.

?Hey Rip,? The young rider said.

The young rider didn?t hesitate, but nodded, picked up his leather and headed toward the squeaky front door. ?She didn?t gimme no grief,? He said.

?Who the fuck cares,? Rip said. ?She?s a piece of shit. Shut the door behind you.? He threw his black leather jacket and club vest on the couch and headed toward the kitchen. He yanked open the fridge, looked around and slammed it. ?Fuck, no beer.?

He grabbed his vest, jerked a stainless flask out of an inside pocket and took a swig. He slammed the flask on the coffee table and kicked back. ?This is bullshit,? he muttered under his breath.

?What is,? Sheila said and immediately knew the statement was a big mistake.

Rip sneered at her, as if his gaze would sear right through her recuperating brain. ?Fuckin? drug addict, chick. You?re not worth the powder to blow you to hell.? He took another long swig on his flask and slammed it so hard on the coffee table, the short wooden legs gave and the top bowed. ?You know your boss wanted you killed,? he said and stood up?

?No,? She said and looked around the room as if someone might come to her aid. ?He wouldn?t do that??

Rip stepped across the room quickly with heavy footsteps, and slapped her so hard it blackened her right eye and bloodied her nose. ?Fuck he wouldn?t, bitch,? Rip said. ?Why not, because you have a tight pussy and give good blowjobs??

?Well,? Sheila nearly agreed when Rip hit her again. For the first time terror struck her core. She had always got away with murder, because of her looks and sexual prowess. A couple of guys pushed her around some, but she was always owned by the big guy and protected. Suddenly that security was fleeting.

?This whole deal is bullshit,? Rip said. ?We don?t need you, or your kind around here.? He yanked a heavy set of keys off his belt loop and unlocked the chains to her bed. Yanking her to her feet, he ripped open her blouse and tore it off her body, slicing her arms.

?What are you doing,? she whimpered? For brief seconds, she thought he might fuck her and she was relieved. Then it struck her that sex wasn?t his intention.

?We should done this the first week you were here,? Rip said and tore away her dress and punched her in the stomach. She buckled and puked on the floor.

?Clean it up with your clothes,? Rip barked, and she moved quickly.

Rip yanked the chains and drug her towards the door. She couldn?t crawl. The chains were shackled to her wrists. ?Please,? she pleaded. She sensed that she was in treacherous trouble.

Rip ignored her tears and drug her out the front door, down the steps into the gravel. She screamed, rolling to her side, but no one heard. The gravel tore at her flesh as he drug her across the walk into the desert beyond. At first the sand felt soft, but it burned and thorns from tumbleweed stung her flesh. She jolted as a scorpion, disturbed by Rip kicking a chunk of wood, scrambled across the sand looking for a new shelter. It?s poisonous tail snapped at the unknown intruder.

?That fuckin? Bandit,? Rip muttered pulling her chains toward the back of the mobile home, past abandoned car hulks and junk red with rust fading into the sand. He kicked her in the ribs and yanked on the chain until her wrists reached up his waistband. ?He doesn?t need you. You?ll jump on the drug wagon again, lose your looks and probably be a lousy waitress. Get the fuck out.? Rip unlocked the chains and tossed them in the sand. ?You?re free to go.?

?But clothes,? she said quivering? Night descended on the desert and blistering heat turned to bitter cold. She stood up completely naked in the sand, her harms wrapped around her torso in some effort to conceal and protect.

?Why,? Rip snapped? ?You don?t care about yourself, why should we??

She stood up and looked around. The little San Bernardino Mountains were 20 miles in the distance. She knew she had no skills at survival. A tear crept down the side of her face.

?There?s a running Sportster in that shed,? Rip said. ?It?s a kicker but you can take it.?

She limped to the shed, pulled open the doors and started in. It was covered in nasty cobwebs and suddenly she recognized her inabilities. She could no-more start it than she could make clothes to survive in.

Sheila?s desperate state began to engulf her. She never felt so lost, uncertain and unskillful. She collapsed in the sand and Rip lifted her to her feet and walked her back into the mobile home. She scrambled to wrap herself in a blanket.

?Are you ready to learn??

?If I don?t I won?t survive,? Sheila said. She flopped on her bed exhausted.

?Shut the fuck up. I?m going home,? Rip said. ?You?re alone now, in the desert. We?re done with you. You?re free to leave.? Rip pulled on his black beard and pointed north. ?Las Vegas is about 250 miles due north of here. The first town is 25 miles south.?

?But what about Bandit,? Sheila whimpered?

?The bastard will come for you,? Rip said, ?but I don?t know when.? He pulled on his heavy jacket. ?I don?t know what gets into that guy.? He opened a cupboard and tossed a book at her.

She sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the book, The Diary of Ann Frank. She thought she knew of the title, but it didn?t ring a bell.

Rip stormed out the front door and slammed it. He mounted his black Evo, fired it to life, rattling the cheap mobile homes windows with his sharp exhaust. He dropped it in gear and spewed sand and gravel all over the front of the aluminum siding, then blasted down the drive. Suddenly the night was as quiet as a tomb. She opened the book and began to read.

The Cantina biz grew all summer. The city of Los Angeles shifted gears from a sprawling port authority gobbling up outlining land whenever possible to expand refineries and container parking to a harbor seeking a balance with the community.

San Pedro hosted five miles of coastline with less than a mile accessible to the public. With a new mayor at the helm land use philosophies changed. More restaurants popped up. The LA Public responded and rolled to the port including riders from all over the city.

Bandit expanded the Cantina patio area and hired bands on weekends to entertain the crowds. Marko Looked for additional waitresses and the Chinaman hired more galley help including Juan and his equally Hispanic bride, Anita. They worked diligently. Juan was short and had mouth a full of glistening braces, and he was 30 something. He smiled constantly under his sweat stained ball cap. Anita, at 5?5?, with creamy olive skin and dark eyes that darted with hesitation, hustled from one galley task to another.

Weekends jammed. Marko expanded the motorcycle only parking and hired a massive Asian Body guard, Luna, with an evil glare and a long dark Fu Man Chu, mustache to watch the bikes.

Marko studied the new staff members reluctantly, including a tall, drink-o?-water blonde who came with stellar recommendations, maybe too exceptional. Her thinning ponytail hair was Orange County surfer-girl perfect, and her eyes were a pale blue that spoke of fiery Opals. Marko cringed at the inclination that her eyes were fire-like stones.

?Have any extra shifts,? Sheila, the blonde, asked Marko after her first week on the job.

Why?s that,? Marko asked?

I like working here,? Sheila said. ?This gin joint ain?t bad. Remember the movie ?Casablanca? with Humphrey Bogart? That?s where I picked up ?Gin Joint?. I love that old flick. It?s so romantic.?

?Enough,? Marko shut her rambling down. ?Why do you want an extra shift, low on funds??

?No,? Sheila returned immediately. ?Tips are terrific here. Last night I rolled out with $200 in cash. One guy tipped so much I followed him from the bar to the dining room and back.?

Stick with your assigned station,? Marko said and glared at here pupils. They were dilated. Bandit didn?t drug test and swore he never would. Marko recognized a tweaker instantly and took her by the slender arm outside.

?Listen,? Marko said, ?I don?t like tweakers around here. Do what you want on your own time, but beware meth will eat you alive.

She looked at Marko hard. A smug grin creased her lips, ?Can I have an extra shift??

?No,? Marko said directly.

?Why,? Sheila?s glare intensified?

?I?ll let you know,? Marko said, and his voice turned stern. ?Better get to it. You?re on the clock.?

?Why can?t I have the shift,? Sheila asked again?? She followed Marko?s wide shoulders back through the large, distressed Oak doors. For an hour Marko watched her move through her waitress duties with jaunted, sullen body language. She wasn?t happy, and then she hit the head and her bubbly demeanor returned. She glided through the work hours like warm syrup poured from a slick glass pitcher. Marko recognized trouble. He liked the staff the way it was. He didn?t like adding unknowns into the mix.

Nyla glanced at Marko, then at Sheila with a knowing wink. Sheila?s big eyes and constant gregarious banter gave the meth away.

Marko shook his head and pushed open the swinging galley door to check the kitchen action. The rotund Chinaman moved like a master Harley mechanic cooking up a high performance engine. He used tools with respect and pride. His crew silently danced from one task to another. Marko took inventory of the staff. There were two more Hispanic workers with their sleeves rolled up bustling around the stainless deep sink. A small child sat quietly and watched, what presumably were his or her parents, and held a small wooden, Mexican toy.

?Yo,? Marko shouted over the clamoring din of the kitchen activity, and caught the Chinaman?s attention. ?What gives??

Hep with clean-up,? Chinaman said in broken English and returned to his harried cooking duties. He appeared too move in five different directions at once, flipping sizzling pans, adjusting burners, arranging plates and spitting egg shells while motioning to his staff.

Marko never understood the Chinaman?s ability to train or communicated with his crew, Hispanic or not. He spoke no Spanish and only an awkward dozen busted English words, but the job was handled with aplomb, like a talented magician.

Marko worked with the big lumbering man, who wore pristine uniforms daily, for over five years and was amazed. He was an incredible chef, the kitchen was constantly immaculate and the crew worked diligently.

Marko nodded and backed out of the Kitchen. The dining room and bar was packed. Nyla played grab-ass with Mandy to the customers? delight. Tina hustled from table to table and the roar of more Harleys filled the lot. ?Saturday afternoon bled into the evening effortlessly and the night bar crowd replaced dinner customers. The Charlie Brechtel band set up on the make shift stage and swapped mariachi dinner Mexican tunes for blues and rock.

As Charlie played the 5-Ball Blues, a tribute to Bandit?s five wives and marriage blues, Marko?s pager vibrated on his hip. It let him know that Luna wanted his attention. He flipped open his walkie-talkie, ?Come in, over,? he said.

?There?s a limo fulla trouble outside,? Luna said dryly and clicked off his phone. As Marko pushed open the massive Oak front door he spotted two sizeable-armed thugs standing on either side of Luna.

?Thank you,? a large black man said from the leather interior behind the lowered rear window. His flabby neck housed a sea of gold bling along with gold inlays on his front bleached teeth.

Marko looked over the hood of the dark limo to Luna and the thugs. They indicated for him to come around the long stretch to their side, but Marko knew better. He tapped on the glass on the opposite side and knelt down beside the Cadillac. The window automatically slid down.

?My boy said the other side, chump,? Bling said.

?This is my parking lot, pal. Whatta you need,? Marko said? Bling?s face cringed, but he remained tough.

?One of my babies is working for you,? Bling said. ?She owes me big time. I know you?ll see that she gets all the cooperation she needs.? The window rolled up before Marko could respond.

As Marko stood the bullies moved around the car swiftly and pushed him out of the way, yanking open the rear car door. Marko spun and put his back against the long stretched body. Sheila was standing in the doorway grinning. The second thug crawled into the car interior and slammed the door. It sped across the parking lot.

Just as quickly Marko swiftly drew his 45 cal H&K from his lower back holster, chambered a round, clicked off the safety and crouched into a perfect firing position aiming at the rear of the tinted window limo. He faked two shots, not wanting to alarm any customers, stood, withdrew the hammer, snapped the safety on and re-holstered the weapon.

?What?s going on,? Frankie, who was sweeping the parking lot, ran to Marko?s side?

?Not much,? Marko said. ?Don?t sweat it.? Marko ignored Sheila and turned to Luna. ?You all right,? he said?

?Yeah,? Luna replied and pulled on his Fu Man Chu that made him look even more menacing.

?You know these people,? Marko asked?

?No,? Luna said, ?but I suspect a major meth dealer. ?I see him at various nightclubs in Hollywood. He likes to set up someone inside. He sometimes owns a joint before long. Then I move on.?

?I can see it,? Marko said and went back inside. The rest of the night was uneventful aside from Sheila?s stares. She departed when her shift was over. At 2:00 Marko and the staff shut down and he took his fishing gear to the edge of the dock and cracked open his first beer of the night, a Corona.

It was 3:00 a.m. when Marko?s nylon line touched the oil tainted briny harbor water. Suddenly he noticed a scent in the air. It wasn?t the smell of bleach and disinfectant used usually to clean the kitchen. It was the smell of Mexican food on a grill. He set his drop-line down and went to investigate. Behind the closed Cantina, next to the steel dumpster, an illegal alien family set up a tent and were grilling Cantina leftovers on a makeshift barbecue. Marko recognized the couple working over the deep sink, by the glow from their small fire.

He backed away quietly, shook his head and returned to his fishing and beer.

The Cantina biz grew all summer. The city of Los Angeles shifted gears from a sprawling port authority gobbling up outlining land whenever possible to expand refineries and container parking to a harbor seeking a balance with the community.

San Pedro hosted five miles of coastline with less than a mile accessible to the public. With a new mayor at the helm land use philosophies changed. More restaurants popped up. The LA Public responded and rolled to the port including riders from all over the city.

Bandit expanded the Cantina patio area and hired bands on weekends to entertain the crowds. Marko Looked for additional waitresses and the Chinaman hired more galley help including Juan and his equally Hispanic bride, Anita. They worked diligently. Juan was short and had mouth a full of glistening braces, and he was 30 something. He smiled constantly under his sweat stained ball cap. Anita, at 5?5?, with creamy olive skin and dark eyes that darted with hesitation, hustled from one galley task to another.

Weekends jammed. Marko expanded the motorcycle only parking and hired a massive Asian Body guard, Luna, with an evil glare and a long dark Fu Man Chu, mustache to watch the bikes.

Marko studied the new staff members reluctantly, including a tall, drink-o?-water blonde who came with stellar recommendations, maybe too exceptional. Her thinning ponytail hair was Orange County surfer-girl perfect, and her eyes were a pale blue that spoke of fiery Opals. Marko cringed at the inclination that her eyes were fire-like stones.

?Have any extra shifts,? Sheila, the blonde, asked Marko after her first week on the job.

Why?s that,? Marko asked?

I like working here,? Sheila said. ?This gin joint ain?t bad. Remember the movie ?Casablanca? with Humphrey Bogart? That?s where I picked up ?Gin Joint?. I love that old flick. It?s so romantic.?

?Enough,? Marko shut her rambling down. ?Why do you want an extra shift, low on funds??

?No,? Sheila returned immediately. ?Tips are terrific here. Last night I rolled out with $200 in cash. One guy tipped so much I followed him from the bar to the dining room and back.?

Stick with your assigned station,? Marko said and glared at here pupils. They were dilated. Bandit didn?t drug test and swore he never would. Marko recognized a tweaker instantly and took her by the slender arm outside.

?Listen,? Marko said, ?I don?t like tweakers around here. Do what you want on your own time, but beware meth will eat you alive.

She looked at Marko hard. A smug grin creased her lips, ?Can I have an extra shift??

?No,? Marko said directly.

?Why,? Sheila?s glare intensified?

?I?ll let you know,? Marko said, and his voice turned stern. ?Better get to it. You?re on the clock.?

?Why can?t I have the shift,? Sheila asked again?? She followed Marko?s wide shoulders back through the large, distressed Oak doors. For an hour Marko watched her move through her waitress duties with jaunted, sullen body language. She wasn?t happy, and then she hit the head and her bubbly demeanor returned. She glided through the work hours like warm syrup poured from a slick glass pitcher. Marko recognized trouble. He liked the staff the way it was. He didn?t like adding unknowns into the mix.

Nyla glanced at Marko, then at Sheila with a knowing wink. Sheila?s big eyes and constant gregarious banter gave the meth away.

Marko shook his head and pushed open the swinging galley door to check the kitchen action. The rotund Chinaman moved like a master Harley mechanic cooking up a high performance engine. He used tools with respect and pride. His crew silently danced from one task to another. Marko took inventory of the staff. There were two more Hispanic workers with their sleeves rolled up bustling around the stainless deep sink. A small child sat quietly and watched, what presumably were his or her parents, and held a small wooden, Mexican toy.

?Yo,? Marko shouted over the clamoring din of the kitchen activity, and caught the Chinaman?s attention. ?What gives??

Hep with clean-up,? Chinaman said in broken English and returned to his harried cooking duties. He appeared too move in five different directions at once, flipping sizzling pans, adjusting burners, arranging plates and spitting egg shells while motioning to his staff.

Marko never understood the Chinaman?s ability to train or communicated with his crew, Hispanic or not. He spoke no Spanish and only an awkward dozen busted English words, but the job was handled with aplomb, like a talented magician.

Marko worked with the big lumbering man, who wore pristine uniforms daily, for over five years and was amazed. He was an incredible chef, the kitchen was constantly immaculate and the crew worked diligently.

Marko nodded and backed out of the Kitchen. The dining room and bar was packed. Nyla played grab-ass with Mandy to the customers? delight. Tina hustled from table to table and the roar of more Harleys filled the lot. ?Saturday afternoon bled into the evening effortlessly and the night bar crowd replaced dinner customers. The Charlie Brechtel band set up on the make shift stage and swapped mariachi dinner Mexican tunes for blues and rock.

As Charlie played the 5-Ball Blues, a tribute to Bandit?s five wives and marriage blues, Marko?s pager vibrated on his hip. It let him know that Luna wanted his attention. He flipped open his walkie-talkie, ?Come in, over,? he said.

?There?s a limo fulla trouble outside,? Luna said dryly and clicked off his phone. As Marko pushed open the massive Oak front door he spotted two sizeable-armed thugs standing on either side of Luna.

?Thank you,? a large black man said from the leather interior behind the lowered rear window. His flabby neck housed a sea of gold bling along with gold inlays on his front bleached teeth.

Marko looked over the hood of the dark limo to Luna and the thugs. They indicated for him to come around the long stretch to their side, but Marko knew better. He tapped on the glass on the opposite side and knelt down beside the Cadillac. The window automatically slid down.

?My boy said the other side, chump,? Bling said.

?This is my parking lot, pal. Whatta you need,? Marko said? Bling?s face cringed, but he remained tough.

?One of my babies is working for you,? Bling said. ?She owes me big time. I know you?ll see that she gets all the cooperation she needs.? The window rolled up before Marko could respond.

As Marko stood the bullies moved around the car swiftly and pushed him out of the way, yanking open the rear car door. Marko spun and put his back against the long stretched body. Sheila was standing in the doorway grinning. The second thug crawled into the car interior and slammed the door. It sped across the parking lot.

Just as quickly Marko swiftly drew his 45 cal H&K from his lower back holster, chambered a round, clicked off the safety and crouched into a perfect firing position aiming at the rear of the tinted window limo. He faked two shots, not wanting to alarm any customers, stood, withdrew the hammer, snapped the safety on and re-holstered the weapon.

?What?s going on,? Frankie, who was sweeping the parking lot, ran to Marko?s side?

?Not much,? Marko said. ?Don?t sweat it.? Marko ignored Sheila and turned to Luna. ?You all right,? he said?

?Yeah,? Luna replied and pulled on his Fu Man Chu that made him look even more menacing.

?You know these people,? Marko asked?

?No,? Luna said, ?but I suspect a major meth dealer. ?I see him at various nightclubs in Hollywood. He likes to set up someone inside. He sometimes owns a joint before long. Then I move on.?

?I can see it,? Marko said and went back inside. The rest of the night was uneventful aside from Sheila?s stares. She departed when her shift was over. At 2:00 Marko and the staff shut down and he took his fishing gear to the edge of the dock and cracked open his first beer of the night, a Corona.

It was 3:00 a.m. when Marko?s nylon line touched the oil tainted briny harbor water. Suddenly he noticed a scent in the air. It wasn?t the smell of bleach and disinfectant used usually to clean the kitchen. It was the smell of Mexican food on a grill. He set his drop-line down and went to investigate. Behind the closed Cantina, next to the steel dumpster, an illegal alien family set up a tent and were grilling Cantina leftovers on a makeshift barbecue. Marko recognized the couple working over the deep sink, by the glow from their small fire.

He backed away quietly, shook his head and returned to his fishing and beer.

Spring dried up the heaviest winter wetness in the history of Califa. Some 30-plus inches of rain pummeled the coast living on a drought ridden average of 10 inches a year. A handful of Spanish tiles were ripped from the Cantina roof and shattered on the cracked asphalt parking lot. The fluorescent lines in the pavement were faded and sparse. Shrubbery was overgrown and needed trimming and Bandit wasn’t around.

He’d ridden to Laughlin and hadn’t returned. When the boss was out of town Marko took over and lead Franky, the recovering alcoholic, around the premises on security missions, but the condition of the Cantina was bugging him. He took special care to see that the grounds were clean, but he didn’t have the tools or team to deal with chipped paint, busted tiles and cracked wood fences.

As the sun shone more persistently the crowds returned. Marko knew of Bandit’s plans for an expanded patio and live bands on the weekend. Marko looked at his over-blown Rolex dive watch and thought to himself, “We’re burnin’ daylight.” That’s what Bandit would have said. Memorial day was fast approaching. Riders who didn’t choose to split lanes for hours to escape the city relied on the Cantina for summer afternoon getaways. The girls would slither into the Cantina from adjoining colleges and bask in the sun, sipping margaritas in scantily clad outfits while waiting for just the right rider to sweep them over the Vincent Thomas bridge toward the Blue Cafe in Long Beach. You either ended up at the Blue or at Bandit’s on Friday, Saturday or Sunday nights.

Marko stood in the parking lot and looked at the chipped tile shingle drooping from the corner of the building. “What’s up,” Franky asked?

“I want to make some repairs, but the old man isn’t around to give his blessing,” Marko said.

“Do we have the cash,” Franky asked?

“Yeah, we’ve got lots of cash,” Marko added.

“Well let’s fix this joint up while Bandit’s on the road,” Franky said questioning? “I know a crew that will handle it.”

“They’re cool, I swear,” Franky touted, but his red-light eyes darted in his head like a school kid handing his folks a bad report card while professing his innocence. “I’ve known this crew for 10 years. They worked on Brad’s Harbor Kick-Boxing Club. It’s bitchin.”

Doubt filled Marko’s blue gray eyes, but he succumbed to the request. “Have them stop by in the morning. I’d like to touch this place up before the holiday,” Marko said and followed two redheads who emerged from a glistening new corvette into the Cantina.

The next morning, at 8:00 a.m. sharp someone knocked persistently on Marko’s apartment door. Nothing happens in the Cantina before 10:00. It’s the fuckin’ code. Marko scrambled to his feet, grabbed his Browning 45 and jerked open the door. A big monster of a Mexican stood starring over rotund cheeks down at Marko. “You call for work crew,” he said in broken English?

“Where’s Franky,” Marko said and clicked off the safety on the parkarized weapon.

“It’s no problem Senor,” the Mexican said and took a step back, but his eyes didn’t indicate fear. Three other, much smaller Hispanics stepped into the picture. “You need some work done, right?”

Just then Franky rode up on his rusting bicycle. “Sorry Marko, they like to work early,” Franky said.

“I don’t give a shit,” Marko spat. “I’m the customer. I don’t move until 10:00. This is your gig, pal. You know what I want done, and it better by done right.” Marko slammed his door, clicked the safety back on, set the semi-auto on his night stand and slipped back into bed.

Franky was energized by assignment. He rode the crew like a trail boss rode a 20-mule team. They repaired the roof, prepped and refinished all the door jams and window sills, steam-cleaned the asphalt, patched cracks with their tar boiler and restripped the parking spaces.

Where Franky darted around supervising like a poodle dancing around Rotweiller, the massive Mexican, Francisco stood stoically watching his five man team work.

“Bandit has Harleys,” Francisco asked matter-of-factly?

“Yeah sure,” Franky said, “lots of them.” He watched as the crew began to trim the luscious crimson Bougainvillea that drooped with jagged thorns around the Spanish stucco wall.

“Does he keep them in the Cantina,” Francisco said?

“Yeah and some in the garage,” Franky said pointing at some short shrubs. “Are they going to cut those? Not too much mind you.”

“No problem boss,” Francisco said. “This is a nice building. Is it alarmed?”

“Nope, no alarms,” Franky said. “He doesn’t need any. Hey, they gonna sweep up the leaves under them bushes?”

“Sure Boss,” the big man muttered and walked the perimeter of the building inspecting every opening.

“We don’t need to do anything back here,” Franky said following the big man.

“Just thought I would check,” Francisco said. “We could clean up back here. My guys could trim the vines away from these windows.” He peeled the Ivy back and peered in the window to the banquet room at the back of the Cantina. Bandit kept a prized 1946 Indian Chief. It sparkled as the light from the window danced across the restored finish and chrome.

“Maybe next week,” Franky said wanting to return to the front of the building and the action.

“We could come back for more work, maybe a steady gig, Franky,” Francisco said almost salivating?

“I’ll have to talk to the boss,” Franky said.

Francisco was a harbor thug. His face a myriad of fight scars. He worked the harbor, a big bully teenager, as a lone shark bill collector jacking up long shoremen on payday. As he aged his jobs changed to club bouncer, strong-arm man and thug. He never officially mastered hitman credentials, but killed one man in a barroom brawl behind the Alhambra bar not far from the San Pedro Post Office. It was a drunken foolish mistake and he returned to Mexico to hide out for seven years before rolling back to his home on the California coast. He calmed some and he began to run a crew of workers. He didn’t know construction but worked the clientele in his bully fashion, then worked the crews. They knew that the pay would always be collected. He was a paid body guard for a group of young hardworking Hispanics who needed steady work to feed their families.

Then he returned to the Alhambra to drink with his wino pals, drug addicts and homeless vets who still had the pent-up energy for a heist. His family crew were his cover to stalk homes, businesses and Bandit’s Cantina, thanks to unsuspecting Franky.

The Familia Crew worked diligently until the sun set and the Cantina had a new face, precisely trimmed landscape and touched up paint and parking lot. Franky paid the group and they gathered their equipment into a rusting pickup and Francisco collected the payment, which was more than reasonable and divvied it up amongst the crew. He wadded his share into the big pocket of his overalls and steered the smoking pickup, with tall shaking plywood walls, out of the parking lot.

“They did a right fine job,” Franky said gleaming with pride.

“Yep,” Marko said. “How long have you known the big one?”

“About 20 years,” Franky said. “He was a badass once. Killed a man behind the Alhambra with a barstool. But he’s got a good heart.”

“He’s a drunk,” Marko said.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” Franky said. “He still hangs at the Alhambra ten years after I quit drinking.”

“How do you mean,” Franky said? His eyes glazed over with drooping eyebrows filled with wrinkled concern. He was a road map of drunks, drugs, and tanned homelessness. His skin was thick with leathery tributes to street life. “I don’t get it.”

“You will,” Marko said. “Let’s see what the Chinaman has cooked up for us, then it’s happy hour.”

The Cantina looked good as the sun set and a warm reddish hue danced over the fresh paint while bikes rolled into the parking lot from the various piers and oil refineries around the port. The Los Angeles Port labor unions were on a major hiring spree. An untrained worker made between $230 and $315 a day working the docks. Over 10,000 new applicants were tested and put to work. Some failed drug tests, dodged them or showed up late. Miss a meeting or training session and they immediately lost their card–for ever more.

Cars filled the Cantina Parking lot and Mariachies played steel guitars and watched the young female patrons sip margaritas. Nyla danced about the busy bar and played grab ass with Tina and Mandy. Another spectacular Cantina night. No fights, the music was fine, the food delicious and the drinks supreme. Everyone had a good time, except Marko. He was a warrior in preparation for battle.

Franky handled his usual security duties, but was concerned. He knew something was afoot with Marko and didn’t understand the code or how it applied to him. He felt completely at ease with the job his crew had administered. He was delighted with their workmanship, promptness and quality.

As the night wore on he noted Marko’s tight discipline. Usually Marko made the moves on at least one of the girls. Most nights Nyla made moves on one of the girls also, but Franky noticed that she watched Marko with concern. “Is there trouble in Paradise,” she asked?

“Probably,” Marko replied, “but we’ll handle it.” He moved around the Cantina in a distinct routine as if on guard. He tested doors, checked windows, situated chairs and tables in a particular fashion and made Franky report on the parking lot more often than usual. As Nyla announced last call, Marko seemed relieved. He watched and said good by to each patron, but stood carefully just outside the door while scanning the parking lot carefully. Each move was precisely calculated. As the last customer boarded a cab Franky was instructed to push three Softails in the garage and locked both locks, one on each end of the door.

Marko indicated for the Franky to come into the Cantina dining room where he called the staff together. “Helluva evening, Bandit would be proud, but we’re now on code MC alert,” Marko said and the girls immediately understood.

The Chinaman and his crew went directly to the kitchen and removed weapons from their lockers. They made sure the doors and windows were latched. They moved quietly to their positions and loaded their arms.

Earlier in the evening Marko had all the employees move their vehicles out of the parking lot and across the street to the West Marine Parking lot. By 2:45 the Cantina parking lot was empty. At three o’clock a large Rider step van pulled into the parking lot, swerved around and backed up to the rear Cantina garage entrance, where the riding bikes and customer bikes were stowed.

Two men, in dark clothes, jumped out of the cab and hesitated, looking around for movement. Although covered in the cloak of dark attire, one was Francisco, big and lumbering. The Cantina lights were out. They moved quickly around the back of the van and unlatched the roll-up door. It clamored to the ceiling and rocked back and forth as five more men piled out of the bed and pulled a large chunk of oil well pipe out of the bed scrapping the hardwood floor and diamond plate lift gate bed with rusting metal. The end was welded shut and six feet behind the tip were welded large handles.

They moved into position each man wearing leather cloves and black t-shirts poised at one of the steel handles waiting for the large Mexican’s signal to drive the battering ram at the securely locked garage door. Francisco snapped a MAG- Lite on and studied the entrance for signs of alarm systems. There were no Protection One decals, no Brinks boxes indicating alarms. He looked for magnetic sensors on the windows earlier but didn’t detect any.

One black man jumped back into the cab of the truck while four short Hispanic guys held the ram. A white guy wearing all black with long scraggly blond hair hanging beneath his knit cap stood poised with a pump shot gun. Francisco held a massive 44 Magnum, long-barrel revolver and looked around tentatively. It was too good to be true

Inside Marko watched their every movement and instructed his crew. As the truck backed up to the garage door he signaled for the girls to head upstairs. The Chinaman and his gang crept out the Kitchen door into the warm night air. In stealth fashion they moved around the corner of the building. Marko watched with Franky trembling at his side. “You’re going to comfort these bastards,” Marko whispered. “They’re your pals?”

“I, I, suppose,” Franky said. He grew up surrounded by violence. His father beat him, his brother was killed by a street gang. His mother was rapped for being a party to a bad drug deal and he was beat practically to death behind numerous bars before he gave up drinking and drugs. Marko was about to hand him an AK-47 when he saw the look in his eyes. It wasn’t fear. It was the look of a disappointed warrior. A man who had faced many battles, but always for the wrong reason. Marko took the weapon back.

“You watch my back,” Marko said and handed him a sawed off shotgun. Franky was relieved and his chest thrust forward and he pulled himself to his full height as he chewed madly on a toothpick. “I get it now,” he said. “I should have been more careful.”

Marko nodded and opened a hidden electrical box beside the front door. He eyed the sizable switches like circuit breakers. He picked the one labeled exterior emergency and looked at Franky. “Are you ready,” he said?

“Yep,” Franky said and Marko tossed the switch. The entire exterior of the Cantina burst into brilliant illumination as 5,000 watts of flood lights shed down upon the wood-be thieves. The girls upstairs shoved open windows, pointed and cocked weapons at the gang beneath them. Marko and Franky stepped out the massive oak door. Bandit built the entrance for just such an occasion with steel reinforced walls bordering the entrance. Marko leveled his weapon over the wall, as the Chinaman and his crew remained in stealth mode. He had every intention of giving the motely crew of sideline criminals one more chance.

Francisco raised the magnum at the lights and tried to block the glare with his other hand. He fired aimlessly and was shot down in a hail of buckshot from the second story. The crew holding the battering ram dropped the massive steel tool. Two bolted and two reached for weapons. They barely touched their pockets before bullets slammed them against the truck steel lift gate. Suddenly the truck fired to life and attempted to escape. Franky blew out the rear right tires with the 12 guage and it swerved and wheezed toward the exit.

One thief ran directly into the butt of Marko’s assault rifle, lost several teeth and passed out. The other ran for the edge of the dock, but was tackled by one of the Chinaman’s kitchen crew. He pulled a knife, but the young oriental was not without backup. A slithering 22 caliber long pierced his neck and he collapsed.

Marko pulled his cell phone and called the Harbor Office of the Los Angeles Police Department. “Can I speak to investigator Kate Hogan,” he said?