Episode 43: Dock Wars
By Robin Technologies |
Spring dried up the heaviest winter wetness in the history of Califa. Some 30-plus inches of rain pummeled the coast that lives 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 cracked, 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?
Episode 43: Dock Wars
By Robin Technologies |
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?
Episode 43: Dock Wars
By Robin Technologies |
Spring dried up the heaviest winter wetness in the history of Califa. Some 30-plus inches of rain pummeled the coast that lives 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 cracked, 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?
Episode 42: Cantina Christmas
By Robin Technologies |
It’s slow around the holidays as if folks want to be seen by god as good blokes, so they slow the party aspects down. The staff kept the fires burnin’ for the local loyal customers and folks who don’t have anywhere to go but the Cantina during the holidays. Clay’s rolled in everyday to sip beers even as the cool winter wind whipped across the harbor. Buster arrived from time to time to dodge his wife and three screamin’ kids. The girls, Nyla, Mandy and Tina bounced around in a daze enjoying the R&B tunes and flirting with one another.
It was one of these quiet nights when a tall biker rolled up on a basically stock Softail packing a 5’6″ brunette. They were cold and she was bundled from head to toe. Marko eyed her sleek figure inquisitively. She carefully unwrapped the bandanna layers used more for facial protection than the cold. She was as bandaged as the invisible man.
Her male escort was tall, maybe six and a half feet, with acne features against a coarse face. He didn’t appear to have much going on. His bike was plain, to class or pizzazz or extra touches. He was obviously a part-time rider. It wasn’t really his thing. Even his leather didn’t fit him well. The chaps were too short, high-water and his jacket sleeves didn’t reach his wrists.
They sat down at a Cantina table near the Christmas tree and Mandy delivered the warm chips and fresh salsa in a Mexican pottery bowl.
Marko curiously watched from the corner of the bar. She was staunch with a sexy air, and her man was as dead as a telephone pole. They hardly spoke. He grabbed chip after chip and she massaged one as if it would age her lips to let it pass.
The red and white checkerboard table cloth caught the multi-hue Christmas bulbs and reflected their light in her angular, but excellently soft cheeks. She removed her jacket without gentlemanly assistance from her husband. Marko spied the matching wedding bands. Mandy offered them drinks and the dark wavy hared rider declined. “Just black coffee,” he said. But the brunette with thinning straight hair, ordered a gold Cadillac Margarita and her eyes sparkled, or was it the hint from Holiday lights?
The husband scowled at his wife as he perused the menu. Mandy brought the drinks on flattened feet. The couple’s demeanor slowed her jubilant pace. Marko was distracted by the sound of another motorcycle outside in the damp cold. He immediately picked up on the loose solid lifters of an early model, perhaps a flathead. It had to be Indian John.
John tossed open the door wearing his all black uniform and scoffed into the dimly lit room and check out the quiet digs. An old Four Tops tune warmed the Cantina in addition to the fire in the pit. His eyes were cherry red from riding along the coast and he smiled and gave a thumbs up to Marko. John couldn’t speak due to a throat cancer operation, the scars covered by his long, constantly massaged, graying beard. He pulled on it and looked toward the Christmas tree. The girl turned and spotted John and her eyes blazed. She stood immediately and beckoned John to their table.
John was a San Pedro motorcycling pirate. He loved the night, the dark coastal city streets, the bar life and the women. He turned to Marko, who stood quietly observing in a darkened corner of the room, and their eyes met. John’s eyes sparkled like those of the devil’s after he’s spotted a mark. One long curved eyebrow raised as if a signal that the door to hell was comfortably open.
Without a word he danced across the floor to hug the tall one with giant tits. The gesture was electric. The curvaceous woman switched for being a taught concubine to a free sexual spirit. The grouchy husband remained seated and only nodded and shook hands as if obligated.
The Chinaman was heard scolding his south of the border help in the galley as Mandy made trips back and forth to the single table. A side of guacamole, another Cadillac Margarita, a rum and coke for John and hot coffee for the dower husband.
As the second margarita drained the body language intensified. She questioned John and his eyes sparkle as he quickly jotted notes on his napkin. She didn’t seem interested in his response, but stared deeply as if his eyes would tell her more. The husband, the third wheel at the table, said something politely and removed himself. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacked and made his way toward the door.
No sooner did the big Oak porthole shut with a whoosh of cold night air, than this broad turned ardently toward scrawny Indian John and shouted, “Where the hell is he?”
John turned his broken pencil toward the soiled napkin, but she snatched it off the table, crumbled it, her face a hard mask of frustration and anger. “Don’t write your gibberish,” She spat, the color rising in her cheeks. “Just tell me where he is?” She ground her teeth as she glared at the old outlaw.
John looked at her directly, sipped his rum and coke and set the metal cup he carried constantly on the rickety table and back-handed the babe with a five-finger load of jagged silver rings. She spun and fell out of her chair to the peanut shell deck. As quickly as she hit the concrete surface, she jumped back to her feet dusting herself off. Blood slide down her soft cheek and tears welled up in her lower eyelids. She was counting the seconds until her husband returned. Her time was running out and desperation heightened. She opened her form fitting black leather shirt and her soft round mounds pushed at her fabric trying to escape as she reached in for a hanky to dab the blood on her cheek.
John stood up abruptly. His voice box was shot, but if someone listened damn close in a quiet room, his words were recognizable. This time he had nothing to say.
Marko had never seen the old Indian rider mad. He had never seen this broad before either, but she was mesmerizing in a difficult fashion. Her body pushed all his buttons, but something about her face was unfriendly, unkind, inconsiderate, even nasty. She glared at John, grabbed her things and disappeared into the head.
John picked up his stainless steel canister and strode over to where Marko stood. He pushed himself up to full height to bring his beard framed mouth up toward Marko’s ear. “She’s looking for Bandit,” he said and gave Marko a knowing gaze then went to the bar.
The woman stormed out of the bar, passing her husband entering the Cantina, a mist of cold night air lingering around his eyes. “Let’s get out of hear she snapped and walked out the door. Her tall angular husband walked to the table to retrieve his riding gear. He sipped his coffee once more, set the cup down and left without a word.
Marko watched the big man leave and followed him out the door. Silently, without comment, or emotional gesture the couple mounted their late model Softail and rumbled out of the parking lot.
Another quiet Holiday night. The hours passed uneventful, the girls giggling and playing grab-ass with one another. Indian John jotted notes on his napkins and shared his old school lingo with Clay and Buster. As the night lingered and John headed out to his Indian he paused and got close to Marko again. He slapped his hand against his chest, the portion that guards a man’s heart. Each time he did it he pointed toward the stairs and Bandit’s apartment. He shook Marko’s hand heartily with an old school brotherhood grasp and leaned in. “Bandit does something to women,” he said and made another hand gesture that Marko didn’t understand. He winked and strode out the big Oak doors.
Two Kicks and that Indian with the highbars and the rubber chicken dangling from the sissybar fired to life. Marko listened to the flathead rumble out of the parking lot and into the misty harbor night.
Episode 42: Cantina Christmas
By Robin Technologies |
It’s slow around the holidays as if folks want to be seen by god as good blokes, so they slow the party aspects down. The staff kept the fires burnin’ for the local loyal customers and folks who don’t have anywhere to go but the Cantina during the holidays. Clay’s rolled in everyday to sip beers even as the cool winter wind whipped across the harbor. Buster arrived from time to time to dodge his wife and three screamin’ kids. The girls, Nyla, Mandy and Tina bounced around in a daze enjoying the R&B tunes and flirting with one another.
It was one of these quiet nights when a tall biker rolled up on a basically stock Softail packing a 5’6″ brunette. They were cold and she was bundled from head to toe. Marko eyed her sleek figure inquisitively. She carefully unwrapped the bandanna layers used more for facial protection than the cold. She was as bandaged as the invisible man.
Her male escort was tall, maybe six and a half feet, with acne features against a coarse face. He didn’t appear to have much going on. His bike was plain, to class or pizzazz or extra touches. He was obviously a part-time rider. It wasn’t really his thing. Even his leather didn’t fit him well. The chaps were too short, high-water and his jacket sleeves didn’t reach his wrists.
They sat down at a Cantina table near the Christmas tree and Mandy delivered the warm chips and fresh salsa in a Mexican pottery bowl.
Marko curiously watched from the corner of the bar. She was staunch with a sexy air, and her man was as dead as a telephone pole. They hardly spoke. He grabbed chip after chip and she massaged one as if it would age her lips to let it pass.
The red and white checkerboard table cloth caught the multi-hue Christmas bulbs and reflected their light in her angular, but excellently soft cheeks. She removed her jacket without gentlemanly assistance from her husband. Marko spied the matching wedding bands. Mandy offered them drinks and the dark wavy hared rider declined. “Just black coffee,” he said. But the brunette with thinning straight hair, ordered a gold Cadillac Margarita and her eyes sparkled, or was it the hint from Holiday lights?
The husband scowled at his wife as he perused the menu. Mandy brought the drinks on flattened feet. The couple’s demeanor slowed her jubilant pace. Marko was distracted by the sound of another motorcycle outside in the damp cold. He immediately picked up on the loose solid lifters of an early model, perhaps a flathead. It had to be Indian John.
John tossed open the door wearing his all black uniform and scoffed into the dimly lit room and check out the quiet digs. An old Four Tops tune warmed the Cantina in addition to the fire in the pit. His eyes were cherry red from riding along the coast and he smiled and gave a thumbs up to Marko. John couldn’t speak due to a throat cancer operation, the scars covered by his long, constantly massaged, graying beard. He pulled on it and looked toward the Christmas tree. The girl turned and spotted John and her eyes blazed. She stood immediately and beckoned John to their table.
John was a San Pedro motorcycling pirate. He loved the night, the dark coastal city streets, the bar life and the women. He turned to Marko, who stood quietly observing in a darkened corner of the room, and their eyes met. John’s eyes sparkled like those of the devil’s after he’s spotted a mark. One long curved eyebrow raised as if a signal that the door to hell was comfortably open.
Without a word he danced across the floor to hug the tall one with giant tits. The gesture was electric. The curvaceous woman switched for being a taught concubine to a free sexual spirit. The grouchy husband remained seated and only nodded and shook hands as if obligated.
The Chinaman was heard scolding his south of the border help in the galley as Mandy made trips back and forth to the single table. A side of guacamole, another Cadillac Margarita, a rum and coke for John and hot coffee for the dower husband.
As the second margarita drained the body language intensified. She questioned John and his eyes sparkle as he quickly jotted notes on his napkin. She didn’t seem interested in his response, but stared deeply as if his eyes would tell her more. The husband, the third wheel at the table, said something politely and removed himself. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacked and made his way toward the door.
No sooner did the big Oak porthole shut with a whoosh of cold night air, than this broad turned ardently toward scrawny Indian John and shouted, “Where the hell is he?”
John turned his broken pencil toward the soiled napkin, but she snatched it off the table, crumbled it, her face a hard mask of frustration and anger. “Don’t write your gibberish,” She spat, the color rising in her cheeks. “Just tell me where he is?” She ground her teeth as she glared at the old outlaw.
John looked at her directly, sipped his rum and coke and set the metal cup he carried constantly on the rickety table and back-handed the babe with a five-finger load of jagged silver rings. She spun and fell out of her chair to the peanut shell deck. As quickly as she hit the concrete surface, she jumped back to her feet dusting herself off. Blood slide down her soft cheek and tears welled up in her lower eyelids. She was counting the seconds until her husband returned. Her time was running out and desperation heightened. She opened her form fitting black leather shirt and her soft round mounds pushed at her fabric trying to escape as she reached in for a hanky to dab the blood on her cheek.
John stood up abruptly. His voice box was shot, but if someone listened damn close in a quiet room, his words were recognizable. This time he had nothing to say.
Marko had never seen the old Indian rider mad. He had never seen this broad before either, but she was mesmerizing in a difficult fashion. Her body pushed all his buttons, but something about her face was unfriendly, unkind, inconsiderate, even nasty. She glared at John, grabbed her things and disappeared into the head.
John picked up his stainless steel canister and strode over to where Marko stood. He pushed himself up to full height to bring his beard framed mouth up toward Marko’s ear. “She’s looking for Bandit,” he said and gave Marko a knowing gaze then went to the bar.
The woman stormed out of the bar, passing her husband entering the Cantina, a mist of cold night air lingering around his eyes. “Let’s get out of hear she snapped and walked out the door. Her tall angular husband walked to the table to retrieve his riding gear. He sipped his coffee once more, set the cup down and left without a word.
Marko watched the big man leave and followed him out the door. Silently, without comment, or emotional gesture the couple mounted their late model Softail and rumbled out of the parking lot.
Another quiet Holiday night. The hours passed uneventful, the girls giggling and playing grab-ass with one another. Indian John jotted notes on his napkins and shared his old school lingo with Clay and Buster. As the night lingered and John headed out to his Indian he paused and got close to Marko again. He slapped his hand against his chest, the portion that guards a man’s heart. Each time he did it he pointed toward the stairs and Bandit’s apartment. He shook Marko’s hand heartily with an old school brotherhood grasp and leaned in. “Bandit does something to women,” he said and made another hand gesture that Marko didn’t understand. He winked and strode out the big Oak doors.
Two Kicks and that Indian with the highbars and the rubber chicken dangling from the sissybar fired to life. Marko listened to the flathead rumble out of the parking lot and into the misty harbor night.
Episode 41: Fishing On The Docks
By Robin Technologies |
Photo from Wino Joe
Mandy and Nyla slithered into Bandit’s upstairs apartment as 3:00 a.m. struck a bell and Marko locked the joint down. He watched as the two voluptious asses ascended the stairway bouncing against each other with arms entwined. It was a sight so sensual that it would cause an irate warrior to hang up his saber.
Little Frankie, with the road map rough face, followed the two tough-guys to their van and watched as the primered, 30-year-old vehicle slithered onto the Vincent Thomas bridge and head back to the poor side of the Los Angeles Harbor, Wilmington. Wilmas (the street gang version) was the step child to the eight-mile long San Pedro waterfront compared to Wilmington’s 600 feet. Unlike progressive San Pedro, another suburb of Los Angeles, Wilmington was a third-world ghetto, of flat streets, methadone clinics, homeless assholes and thousands of 18-wheelers trying to find anyway to escape the port, through Wilmington, onto any open interstate.
Frankie reported the van and an all-clear to Marko then boarded his rusting 3-speed bicycle and headed home to a small single apartment that he shared with his ruffian teenage son. Marko checked the premises again, the doors, the empty parking lot and the patio. He buttoned the joint like a jailor and headed to the garage area and his studio apartment adjacent to it.
Marko often scored a horny babe from last call, but not tonight. Just the slipper visual of Mandy and Nyla squirming in Bandit’s over-sized tub was enough to give him tremendous satisfaction. He opened the door to his apartment, grabbed a cold Sam Adams from his fridge and a small bag of flour dough that he used for bait while fishing off the docks. He snatched a well kept rod and reel from his closet and a his high school tackle box. He opened one garage door and strung a 50 foot extension cord with a porcelain shrouded bulb to the edge of the dock and let it slide over the tar treated timbers, within 6 feet of the briny green moss-colored salt water that splashed against the dock. With all his gear in a plastic milk crate he set up his fishing operation on the edge of the asphalt and railroad tie structure and peered at the growing number of fish lured to the surface glow.
He baited the hook with a pea-sized gob of dough and dropped it in the water. Immediately Perch and Smelt bit the hooks and jerked the 5-pound test mona-filament line. Marko sipped his beer and gazed at the lights on the dark harbor, the rippling wake of a passing tugboat and the silhouettes of buildings in the distance. His peaceful time, he enjoyed the smell of salt, even diesel fumes, and the cool breeze from the water. He pondered his scooter, his recent women and the workout he planned for the following day. It was a good day at the Cantina, warm, fun, with a hint of adventure and a the slash of violence that he relished.
He enjoyed his time alone on the harbor’s edge pondering the meaning of life. He was nearly 45 and occasionally he challenged his goals, whether it was time to marry, have kids or settle down. Then he cracked open his second and last beer and decided it was all a bullshit society trap that he could easily avoid without flinching.
The air was still except for the rumble of cars over the sprawling Vincent Thomas, mini-Golden Gate, Suspension bridge. As he caught his third breakfast Perch a crack interrupted the stillness of the night.
Marko spun on the milk crate and simultaneously pulled his Browning 9 mm semi-automatic and chambered a round. He crouched down from the milk crate and moved to the side of the Cantina building and kept moving around the building until he could see the entire parking lot through the landscaped shrubbery. He suspected the dented, mid-70’s van, that Frankie described, was back somewhere.
According to every television show, every movie that takes up valuable time on the silver screen, Marko and Bandit’s security rules and guidelines were completely out of whack.
He’s aggressive, confident and out front. His belief encompasses take no prisoners and no second chances.
The sound of heavy breathing backed by the grunts of a man being pursued introduced Marko to the rattling of Frankie’s bicycle being pedaled for all it was worth. As Frankie turned into the parking lot another explosive crack cut the night’s stillness and the small, 50 year old, ex-drug addict, pedaling the bicycle, lost control and the bike spilled to the pavement with the van closing by 20 feet as it jumped the sidewalk, crushed Oleander bushes adjacent to the driveway and careened into the Cantina parking lot.
Marko, true to the Cantina Code fired, slamming a hollow-point round into the left headlight and another round into the tire below it. He let the driver know immediately that there were no distinctions between discussions and all out battle.
Frankie sprawled on the asphalt and rolled. The multi-faded-colored Van swerved and ran over Frankie’s only mode of transportation as he tried to muster the energy to crawl toward the building.
The vehicle sagged as the tire bled out and Marko thought about a lesson Bandit’s dad told him. The old man grew up in the oil fields and even as a slight 6 foot 2 inch man he never backed down to anyone, never hesitated before a fight and always fought to the death, or until the other man surrendered. No questions, if there was any element of a threat, the fight was on until further notice. With his first two rounds Marko let them know that the fight was initiated. He wasn’t there to discuss the issues.
Frankie’s bike crunched, like a boot against an aluminum beer can, under the lot’s fluorescent lights. Frankie rolled like a drunken sailor walks, weaved then fell over again and the old alcoholic passed out.
Marko shot out the other headlight and front tire. The old Ford Econoline van was disabled and smoking. Marko aimed a foot below the roof line a prepared to fire, but was interrupted by a shower of gatling gun fire that cut across the middle of the windshield and down the roof line of the commercial vehicle.
Marko heard police sirens wailing in the distance. The report was in.
“Don’t shoot,” A voice screamed from the opened side van door. The bullets from the second story of the Spanish building didn’t subside, but began to cut the vehicle in half with a swath down the center of the sheet metal roof. The radiator exploded and steam soared skyward. One badass jumped from the van and fired errantly at the building. Marko fired a round shattering his right kneecap, and the man screamed, dropped his weapon and collapsed.
The bullets continued to slam shattering the windshield between the seats up to the roof and down the center of the van’s body. Marko realized that return fire was bursting out of the windshield area against the building and he returned fire until it stopped.
Suddenly a dense quiet filled the area. Then three squad cars careened into the lot. Marko, blocked from the assailiants, shoved his pristine weapon, smoking from the action into an open area so the cops could see it. He stood up quickly and raised his hands.
Frankie lay face down on the asphalt scared shitless. He was wounded and bleeding. Cops dragged the dead biker out of the van and cuffed the wounded badass who screamed threats from the pavement.
Marko, who trained SWAT teams, military and terrorist units, had a vast array of licenses and credentials that were readily recognized and respected by the Harbor Police Unit, a division of the Los Angeles Police Department. He spoke to them in his usual, calm, professional manner. In 45 minutes the lot was clean, the coroner departed with the dead, the van towed and Frankie carefully loaded into an ambulance and taken to Harbor General. He would survive his gunshot wound and the street despot would have another wild story to tell his son.
Marko returned to the edge of the dock after retrieving another beer from his fridge. He deserved to break his two-drink maximum for the night.
As he took a swig and sighed he heard a heavy creaking from the back galley door and recognized solid footsteps heading his way.
“What the fuck,” Bandit said? He set down another milk crate, a bag of chips, a cup of the Chinaman’s salsa and another cup of warm refried beans cooked with slices of jalapenos. Bandit cracked open a Corona and pulled a drop line out of his denim pocket, baited it with Marko’s special dough and lowered the line into the water.
“Another wild night at the Cantina,” Marko said, “but what the fuck are you going to catch with that?”
“My depression era folks couldn’t afford high-dollar rods and reels,” Bandit said lowering the line slowly, one 4-inch rotation at a time, toward the water 15 feet below the surface of the dock. He had one handmade lead sinker on the line with one large corroded hook.
The big man’s dark nylon line fell in slow motion to the surface as Marko flicked his agile rod and yanked two more slithering Perch from their briny existence. “I don’t get it,” Marko said, “you own this joint why fish with that piece of shit?”
Bandit pulled on his graying goatee in the dim harbor lights and looked out at the glassy surface. “It’s not your tool but what you catch,” Bandit said.
“Patience, my son,” Bandit said with a wry smile as a massive car carrying ship obliterated their view, as if a monster had taken the harbor by surprise. The aircraft carrier sized vessel slid out of the harbor at five knots and barely made a sound except for the rumble of the following tug that controlled the steel monster’s speed.
An hour passed and Marko pulled an even dozen fish from the tainted, oily, sea water and tossed them into a bucket at his feet. He joyfully smirked at the lack of bites Bandit received in the traffic jam of slithering fish that scurried heartily below the mesmerizing surface warming light. “You haven’t caught shit,” Marko laughed.
“Hello handsome,” A voice said and the night air suddenly paused and mysteriously the last ship blocking the light departed and lights sparkled on the harbor like never before.
Marko went slack-jawed as she touched Bandit’s shoulder, he stood and the two embraced as if their romance was held at bay for years. Her features were fine youthful and true to her redheaded heritage. Her skin was as light as a feather with just a hint of freckles and he auburn eyes bore into Bandit’s as if they were fixed for the first time in years.
Her hair was more curvaceous than the soft ripples on the harbor, more colorful than the crimson clouds during a gorgeous sunset. When they kissed the lights on the harbor seemed to glow brighter, the drifting mist grew warmer. The night took on a dramatic mood, more powerful than bullets and the smell of gun powder. They fit, clutched each other with dire desire and Bandit’s right hand dropped to his side holding the drop line.
Marko instinctively grabbed the fishing tool and set it on Bandit’s rare wooden milk crate. He knew he should stand in the presence of a beautiful woman, but for some reason his knees failed to function. For what seemed hours, the couple held each other, then they broke and Bandit kissed down the underside of her soft chin to the nape of her neck and she looked down at Marko with misty eyes. “Goodnight young man,” she said in a whisper as they turned and walked arm in arm toward the Cantina.
Marko couldn’t believe his eyes. Then it dawned on him as he stood alone on the edge of the LA harbor,
Marko recoiled the drop line that didn’t catch a damn fish and tossed it on top of Bandit’s milk crate.
“That bastard,” he said and turned back to his cold bucket of perch.
Episode 41: Fishing On The Docks
By Robin Technologies |
Photo from Wino Joe
Mandy and Nyla slithered into Bandit’s upstairs apartment as 3:00 a.m. struck a bell and Marko locked the joint down. He watched as the two voluptious asses ascended the stairway bouncing against each other with arms entwined. It was a sight so sensual that it would cause an irate warrior to hang up his saber.
Little Frankie, with the road map rough face, followed the two tough-guys to their van and watched as the primered, 30-year-old vehicle slithered onto the Vincent Thomas bridge and head back to the poor side of the Los Angeles Harbor, Wilmington. Wilmas (the street gang version) was the step child to the eight-mile long San Pedro waterfront compared to Wilmington’s 600 feet. Unlike progressive San Pedro, another suburb of Los Angeles, Wilmington was a third-world ghetto, of flat streets, methadone clinics, homeless assholes and thousands of 18-wheelers trying to find anyway to escape the port, through Wilmington, onto any open interstate.
Frankie reported the van and an all-clear to Marko then boarded his rusting 3-speed bicycle and headed home to a small single apartment that he shared with his ruffian teenage son. Marko checked the premises again, the doors, the empty parking lot and the patio. He buttoned the joint like a jailor and headed to the garage area and his studio apartment adjacent to it.
Marko often scored a horny babe from last call, but not tonight. Just the slipper visual of Mandy and Nyla squirming in Bandit’s over-sized tub was enough to give him tremendous satisfaction. He opened the door to his apartment, grabbed a cold Sam Adams from his fridge and a small bag of flour dough that he used for bait while fishing off the docks. He snatched a well kept rod and reel from his closet and a his high school tackle box. He opened one garage door and strung a 50 foot extension cord with a porcelain shrouded bulb to the edge of the dock and let it slide over the tar treated timbers, within 6 feet of the briny green moss-colored salt water that splashed against the dock. With all his gear in a plastic milk crate he set up his fishing operation on the edge of the asphalt and railroad tie structure and peered at the growing number of fish lured to the surface glow.
He baited the hook with a pea-sized gob of dough and dropped it in the water. Immediately Perch and Smelt bit the hooks and jerked the 5-pound test mona-filament line. Marko sipped his beer and gazed at the lights on the dark harbor, the rippling wake of a passing tugboat and the silhouettes of buildings in the distance. His peaceful time, he enjoyed the smell of salt, even diesel fumes, and the cool breeze from the water. He pondered his scooter, his recent women and the workout he planned for the following day. It was a good day at the Cantina, warm, fun, with a hint of adventure and a the slash of violence that he relished.
He enjoyed his time alone on the harbor’s edge pondering the meaning of life. He was nearly 45 and occasionally he challenged his goals, whether it was time to marry, have kids or settle down. Then he cracked open his second and last beer and decided it was all a bullshit society trap that he could easily avoid without flinching.
The air was still except for the rumble of cars over the sprawling Vincent Thomas, mini-Golden Gate, Suspension bridge. As he caught his third breakfast Perch a crack interrupted the stillness of the night.
Marko spun on the milk crate and simultaneously pulled his Browning 9 mm semi-automatic and chambered a round. He crouched down from the milk crate and moved to the side of the Cantina building and kept moving around the building until he could see the entire parking lot through the landscaped shrubbery. He suspected the dented, mid-70’s van, that Frankie described, was back somewhere.
According to every television show, every movie that takes up valuable time on the silver screen, Marko and Bandit’s security rules and guidelines were completely out of whack.
He’s aggressive, confident and out front. His belief encompasses take no prisoners and no second chances.
The sound of heavy breathing backed by the grunts of a man being pursued introduced Marko to the rattling of Frankie’s bicycle being pedaled for all it was worth. As Frankie turned into the parking lot another explosive crack cut the night’s stillness and the small, 50 year old, ex-drug addict, pedaling the bicycle, lost control and the bike spilled to the pavement with the van closing by 20 feet as it jumped the sidewalk, crushed Oleander bushes adjacent to the driveway and careened into the Cantina parking lot.
Marko, true to the Cantina Code fired, slamming a hollow-point round into the left headlight and another round into the tire below it. He let the driver know immediately that there were no distinctions between discussions and all out battle.
Frankie sprawled on the asphalt and rolled. The multi-faded-colored Van swerved and ran over Frankie’s only mode of transportation as he tried to muster the energy to crawl toward the building.
The vehicle sagged as the tire bled out and Marko thought about a lesson Bandit’s dad told him. The old man grew up in the oil fields and even as a slight 6 foot 2 inch man he never backed down to anyone, never hesitated before a fight and always fought to the death, or until the other man surrendered. No questions, if there was any element of a threat, the fight was on until further notice. With his first two rounds Marko let them know that the fight was initiated. He wasn’t there to discuss the issues.
Frankie’s bike crunched, like a boot against an aluminum beer can, under the lot’s fluorescent lights. Frankie rolled like a drunken sailor walks, weaved then fell over again and the old alcoholic passed out.
Marko shot out the other headlight and front tire. The old Ford Econoline van was disabled and smoking. Marko aimed a foot below the roof line a prepared to fire, but was interrupted by a shower of gatling gun fire that cut across the middle of the windshield and down the roof line of the commercial vehicle.
Marko heard police sirens wailing in the distance. The report was in.
“Don’t shoot,” A voice screamed from the opened side van door. The bullets from the second story of the Spanish building didn’t subside, but began to cut the vehicle in half with a swath down the center of the sheet metal roof. The radiator exploded and steam soared skyward. One badass jumped from the van and fired errantly at the building. Marko fired a round shattering his right kneecap, and the man screamed, dropped his weapon and collapsed.
The bullets continued to slam shattering the windshield between the seats up to the roof and down the center of the van’s body. Marko realized that return fire was bursting out of the windshield area against the building and he returned fire until it stopped.
Suddenly a dense quiet filled the area. Then three squad cars careened into the lot. Marko, blocked from the assailiants, shoved his pristine weapon, smoking from the action into an open area so the cops could see it. He stood up quickly and raised his hands.
Frankie lay face down on the asphalt scared shitless. He was wounded and bleeding. Cops dragged the dead biker out of the van and cuffed the wounded badass who screamed threats from the pavement.
Marko, who trained SWAT teams, military and terrorist units, had a vast array of licenses and credentials that were readily recognized and respected by the Harbor Police Unit, a division of the Los Angeles Police Department. He spoke to them in his usual, calm, professional manner. In 45 minutes the lot was clean, the coroner departed with the dead, the van towed and Frankie carefully loaded into an ambulance and taken to Harbor General. He would survive his gunshot wound and the street despot would have another wild story to tell his son.
Marko returned to the edge of the dock after retrieving another beer from his fridge. He deserved to break his two-drink maximum for the night.
As he took a swig and sighed he heard a heavy creaking from the back galley door and recognized solid footsteps heading his way.
“What the fuck,” Bandit said? He set down another milk crate, a bag of chips, a cup of the Chinaman’s salsa and another cup of warm refried beans cooked with slices of jalapenos. Bandit cracked open a Corona and pulled a drop line out of his denim pocket, baited it with Marko’s special dough and lowered the line into the water.
“Another wild night at the Cantina,” Marko said, “but what the fuck are you going to catch with that?”
“My depression era folks couldn’t afford high-dollar rods and reels,” Bandit said lowering the line slowly, one 4-inch rotation at a time, toward the water 15 feet below the surface of the dock. He had one handmade lead sinker on the line with one large corroded hook.
The big man’s dark nylon line fell in slow motion to the surface as Marko flicked his agile rod and yanked two more slithering Perch from their briny existence. “I don’t get it,” Marko said, “you own this joint why fish with that piece of shit?”
Bandit pulled on his graying goatee in the dim harbor lights and looked out at the glassy surface. “It’s not your tool but what you catch,” Bandit said.
“Patience, my son,” Bandit said with a wry smile as a massive car carrying ship obliterated their view, as if a monster had taken the harbor by surprise. The aircraft carrier sized vessel slid out of the harbor at five knots and barely made a sound except for the rumble of the following tug that controlled the steel monster’s speed.
An hour passed and Marko pulled an even dozen fish from the tainted, oily, sea water and tossed them into a bucket at his feet. He joyfully smirked at the lack of bites Bandit received in the traffic jam of slithering fish that scurried heartily below the mesmerizing surface warming light. “You haven’t caught shit,” Marko laughed.
“Hello handsome,” A voice said and the night air suddenly paused and mysteriously the last ship blocking the light departed and lights sparkled on the harbor like never before.
Marko went slack-jawed as she touched Bandit’s shoulder, he stood and the two embraced as if their romance was held at bay for years. Her features were fine youthful and true to her redheaded heritage. Her skin was as light as a feather with just a hint of freckles and he auburn eyes bore into Bandit’s as if they were fixed for the first time in years.
Her hair was more curvaceous than the soft ripples on the harbor, more colorful than the crimson clouds during a gorgeous sunset. When they kissed the lights on the harbor seemed to glow brighter, the drifting mist grew warmer. The night took on a dramatic mood, more powerful than bullets and the smell of gun powder. They fit, clutched each other with dire desire and Bandit’s right hand dropped to his side holding the drop line.
Marko instinctively grabbed the fishing tool and set it on Bandit’s rare wooden milk crate. He knew he should stand in the presence of a beautiful woman, but for some reason his knees failed to function. For what seemed hours, the couple held each other, then they broke and Bandit kissed down the underside of her soft chin to the nape of her neck and she looked down at Marko with misty eyes. “Goodnight young man,” she said in a whisper as they turned and walked arm in arm toward the Cantina.
Marko couldn’t believe his eyes. Then it dawned on him as he stood alone on the edge of the LA harbor,
Marko recoiled the drop line that didn’t catch a damn fish and tossed it on top of Bandit’s milk crate.
“That bastard,” he said and turned back to his cold bucket of perch.
Episode 40: Barroom Blues
By Robin Technologies |
Cantina business was flush. Rumors, newspaper reports and local radio spurned Cantina profits. It was jammed day in and day out. Marko worked overtime. Frankie a rambling part-time helper at many Pedro businesses took on full-time doorman duties.
Clay, a relationship blues induced customer, returned to the Cantina fold on Sunday for brunch. He had nowhere else to go. The Chinaman and his short Mexican staff, prepared a scrumptious buffet including crab enchiladas, Red Snapper burritos, Chiriso and eggs, Cantina salads and fresh fruit. The girls slithered from table to table pouring champagne and mimosas.
Clay ate one simple cheese burrito and drank shots of Quervo Gold backed with Coronas and lime slices. Another rider, Buster, who packed a customized Evo Sporty slipped onto the stool beside Clay and kicked up a conversation.
“Whatta ya riding?” Buster said.
“Not a goddamn thing,” Clay said snivelin’ into his beer. “Another divorce took care of that.” Middle-aged Clay hosted the demeanor of a used-up crack addict. A good looking California surfer type, his long thick pony tail pulled to the back of his head revealed ruddy a tanned complexion, but his coffee-colored brown eyes told of a man who relished misery.
Buster bubbled with scooter enthusiasm. A short, stocky, tattooed from head to foot, fireplug, he was a childhood veteran of street gangs and drug addict parents. His dad still posted a rusting grocery cart on the edge of a port freeway on-ramp where he panhandled for drug money daily.
Buster loved his Evo Sporty and couldn’t wait for his next custom touch fix. He worked with heavily disabled children and raised two kids of his own at the young age of 28. Nothing got him down. “That’s too bad,” Buster said. “I just finished installing new paint on my Sporty. Wanna see it?”
“No,” Clay muttered biting on a salsa laden chip, “Maybe later.”
Nyla bubbled along the bar fixing drinks and cleaning glasses. She automatically exchanged Clay’s empty beer bottle for a fresh one that he snatched and pulled close, as if she might grab and return it to the freezer. She bounced as if the souls of her soft shoes were made from pure pressed joy. When it came to Clay her aura clashed with his negativity like water and oil. It was as if he smelled like a fighter after 15 rounds and she avoided the odor or gloom instinctively. “What can I get you,” Nyla said leaning away from Clay and reaching across the bar to touch Busters shaved skull, “Nice haircut, handsome.”
He blushed crimson, “I’ll take a diet Coke.” Buster said his bright eyes bouncing from Nyla’s sparkling gaze to her spilling cleavage.
Clay reacted to his order, as if Buster told him he arrived for bible study. He flinched.
Nyla turned and snatched an icy glass, filled it with crushed ice and Diet Coke. Just then a big motherfucker pulled up the stool on the other side of Clay and slammed his fist on the Bar, “Nyla,” he spat, “Jack on the rocks. What are you crying about now, Clay?”
“My wife left me for some rich fuck,” Clay said, although the big man wasn’t interested in the reason, just that he was sniveling. His name was Hammer, a bouncer from “The Club” tittie bar in Wilmington. A biker since he was a kid, 30 years ago, on the back streets of the port. He stood 6 foot 4 inches and 300 pounds. He wore all black and sported a black beard and thick black hair except for his salt and pepper sideburns. He was also a veteran of Clay’s romance blues.
Clay never looked up from the half eaten plate of Mexican/Chinese food and hes sacred bottle of beer. “I can’t get over it,” he said and the gloom around him intensified.
“My old lady wants to get it on with another woman,” Buster said looking at the older men for guidance.
“Yeah, so what,” Hammer said after taking a huge gulp of Jack. “Doesn’t every man want two women?”
“It’s not that,” Buster said, “I like the fantasy, but don’t think I can handle her touching a woman on her own. Ain’t foolin’ around foolin’ around?”
Nyla’s ears perked up as she brushed past the stainless steel sink.
“Whatta you think, Clay?” Hammer asked taking another gulp.
Clay buried his face in his wiry hands and cringed. Hammer knew that drawing Clay away from his misery tore at the man’s fried mental agility. He wanted only to focus on his blues.
“I don’t care,” Clay said. “A broken heart is just that, who cares how you get there.”
“Name’s Hammer,” Hammer said extending a big burly fist toward Buster. “I think most women think about getting it on with another woman. At least most of the broads I know.”
“Women are beautiful and oozing sex constantly,” Clay added as if he was discussing the plague. “They’re beautiful to men and women. It’s just the way it is.” It was out of the ordinary to hear Clay expound on anything aside from his constant misery.
“But I can’t handle the jealousy,” Buster spat while sipping his coke.
“Jealousy is a disease,” Hammer said, “I see it all the fuckin’ time. I work in a titty bar. Fuckin’ guys hook up with strippers, then they get jealous when the girls are working.
“So what should you do when your heart is breaking,” Clay muttered.
“Get laid,” Hammer said, “and keep getting laid until you get over it. You’re not alone, goddamnit.”
“I’m not sure I can handle it, either,” Buster said and his constant smile wavered.
“Do you have kids?” Hammer said.
“Yeah, two,” Buster returned
“Sorry Pal,” Hammer said, “that puts you into another league.”
“Whatta ya mean?” Buster said.
“All bets are off when it comes to kids,” Hammer said and shoved his empty tumbler toward the edge of the bar. Nyla made a bee-line to retrieve and refill it. “We can talk about chicks all night. You can say what you like about their ups and downs, running off with another chick, watchin’ your chick with another girl, whatever, but when it comes to kids the relationship needs to stay cemented. It’s one thing when two adults want to destroy their relationship, but kids don’t have a say.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Buster said.
“If your wife wants to fool with another chick, that’s cool,” said Hammer. “Tell ‘er to do her thing, bring a girl home for you once in a while, but don’t fall in love and run off. You’re in the kid class.”
Clay shook his head. “I ain’t gonna ever get over this one,” he said.
“That’s bullshit,” Buster spouted. “Someday you’ll wake up and she’ll just be a distant memory.”
“You’re right, goddamnit,” Hammer said taking a gulp of his fresh drink.
“Okay, okay,” Clay said. “I feel like shit, my joints ain’t connected and I can’t think straight, but while you were talking about girls getting it on I almost felt like a human being.”
“Ah,” Hammer said glancing down the bar. “The magic potion for any man with the blues.” He knocked on the bar like a man knocking on a door. Nyla came scurrying.
“Yes darling,” Nyla giggled. “Another Jack?”
“Nope, is Mandy working?” Hammer said.
“Yeah sure,” Nyla grinned.
Nyla looked perplexed then it dawned on her and she disappeared. Five minutes passed and she returned sporting fresh lipstick. Nyla’s pure alabaster skin glowed with a warm crimson hue, she seemed to be panting behind the bar as if anticipation swept over her and it did.
Mandy strolled out of the kitchen giggling as if she was walking on seat foam. Her cheeks were also rosy with blush and her bright red hair bounced on her shoulders. She approached the waitress stand and ducked under the hinged portion of the bar and came up face to face with Nyla albeit a couple of inches taller.
All three brothers stopped talking and watched as the two women faced each other and the gaze deepened. Their poise, two delicate forms, beautiful, clean, glowing with warmth stood inches apart and their eyes cemented longingly. Nyla slid her hands around Mandy’s waist, and the redhead melted against her. Their lips met with the richness of a deep crimson sunset and sparks flew. Tongues slithered, breasts swelled and pressed together and Clay was gone, sucked into a world of pure adrenaline induced passion. A sight so captivating, so mesmerizing and so tantalizing that his last relationship became a blur of buried bad memories.
Nyla released Mandy as if a magnet, that sought ultimate touch forever, was somehow pried apart. The heat was permeated in the corner of the bar.
“Maybe later?” Mandy questioned craving more.
“There’s no maybe,” Nyla said as she patted Mandy’s ass and glided down the busy bar. There was a dense silence along the Sunday brunch portal. Hammer, Clay and Buster sat slack-jawed.
“Fuck carpet munchers,” came a voice from behind Hammer.
“I’d slap the bitch and butt-fuck her,” another voice slammed the mystic aura.
Hammer spun on his barstool and came face to face with two out of town scum bags. As a veteran bouncer he immediately recognized two-legged trouble. He sized the two men up quickly, checking for weapons and smacked the first one without a word.
The outlaw’s partner looked around as if searching for a chair, barstool or an exit, but he was too slow. Stocky Buster tackled the bigger man mid-waist and drove him to the floor. Hammer didn’t stop with his slap and backed it with a right that would bust out a door. The man spun over a table and hit the floor.
Marko joined the scene immediately. Buster wrestled on top of the scruffy bastard and hammered a couple of punches to the man’s face.
“That’s enough,” Marko said firmly. Although Hammer had Mark by 2 inches and 50 pounds, he knew of Mark’s extensive training and experience. He also respected Marko’s responsibilities in the Cantina. The two bikers pulled themselves to their feet and dusted the peanut shells from their greasy Levis and denim vests. Mark smelled meth chemicals on their clothing.
“Okay motherfucker,” Trouble said. “This isn’t the last you’ve seen of me.”
“I hope not,” Hammer said.
The other lowlife reached under his vest and Marko trapped his hand and twisted it into submission readily. A 4-inch Benchmade, locking blade knife fell to the concrete deck. Marko retrieved it.
“That’s my knife,” the skinny dude snapped.
The skinny sonuvabitch glared, spit on the deck and the two left. “We should have finished it,” Hammer said.
Marko could see Frankie, the little ex-drug addict standing near the door. He nodded to him and Frankie followed them out the door.
“It’s not over with them,” Marko said.”We’ve got a big parking lot.”
Episode 40: Barroom Blues
By Robin Technologies |
Cantina business was flush. Rumors, newspaper reports and local radio spurned Cantina profits. It was jammed day in and day out. Marko worked overtime. Frankie a rambling part-time helper at many Pedro businesses took on full-time doorman duties.
Clay, a relationship blues induced customer, returned to the Cantina fold on Sunday for brunch. He had nowhere else to go. The Chinaman and his short Mexican staff, prepared a scrumptious buffet including crab enchiladas, Red Snapper burritos, Chiriso and eggs, Cantina salads and fresh fruit. The girls slithered from table to table pouring champagne and mimosas.
Clay ate one simple cheese burrito and drank shots of Quervo Gold backed with Coronas and lime slices. Another rider, Buster, who packed a customized Evo Sporty slipped onto the stool beside Clay and kicked up a conversation.
“Whatta ya riding?” Buster said.
“Not a goddamn thing,” Clay said snivelin’ into his beer. “Another divorce took care of that.” Middle-aged Clay hosted the demeanor of a used-up crack addict. A good looking California surfer type, his long thick pony tail pulled to the back of his head revealed ruddy a tanned complexion, but his coffee-colored brown eyes told of a man who relished misery.
Buster bubbled with scooter enthusiasm. A short, stocky, tattooed from head to foot, fireplug, he was a childhood veteran of street gangs and drug addict parents. His dad still posted a rusting grocery cart on the edge of a port freeway on-ramp where he panhandled for drug money daily.
Buster loved his Evo Sporty and couldn’t wait for his next custom touch fix. He worked with heavily disabled children and raised two kids of his own at the young age of 28. Nothing got him down. “That’s too bad,” Buster said. “I just finished installing new paint on my Sporty. Wanna see it?”
“No,” Clay muttered biting on a salsa laden chip, “Maybe later.”
Nyla bubbled along the bar fixing drinks and cleaning glasses. She automatically exchanged Clay’s empty beer bottle for a fresh one that he snatched and pulled close, as if she might grab and return it to the freezer. She bounced as if the souls of her soft shoes were made from pure pressed joy. When it came to Clay her aura clashed with his negativity like water and oil. It was as if he smelled like a fighter after 15 rounds and she avoided the odor or gloom instinctively. “What can I get you,” Nyla said leaning away from Clay and reaching across the bar to touch Busters shaved skull, “Nice haircut, handsome.”
He blushed crimson, “I’ll take a diet Coke.” Buster said his bright eyes bouncing from Nyla’s sparkling gaze to her spilling cleavage.
Clay reacted to his order, as if Buster told him he arrived for bible study. He flinched.
Nyla turned and snatched an icy glass, filled it with crushed ice and Diet Coke. Just then a big motherfucker pulled up the stool on the other side of Clay and slammed his fist on the Bar, “Nyla,” he spat, “Jack on the rocks. What are you crying about now, Clay?”
“My wife left me for some rich fuck,” Clay said, although the big man wasn’t interested in the reason, just that he was sniveling. His name was Hammer, a bouncer from “The Club” tittie bar in Wilmington. A biker since he was a kid, 30 years ago, on the back streets of the port. He stood 6 foot 4 inches and 300 pounds. He wore all black and sported a black beard and thick black hair except for his salt and pepper sideburns. He was also a veteran of Clay’s romance blues.
Clay never looked up from the half eaten plate of Mexican/Chinese food and hes sacred bottle of beer. “I can’t get over it,” he said and the gloom around him intensified.
“My old lady wants to get it on with another woman,” Buster said looking at the older men for guidance.
“Yeah, so what,” Hammer said after taking a huge gulp of Jack. “Doesn’t every man want two women?”
“It’s not that,” Buster said, “I like the fantasy, but don’t think I can handle her touching a woman on her own. Ain’t foolin’ around foolin’ around?”
Nyla’s ears perked up as she brushed past the stainless steel sink.
“Whatta you think, Clay?” Hammer asked taking another gulp.
Clay buried his face in his wiry hands and cringed. Hammer knew that drawing Clay away from his misery tore at the man’s fried mental agility. He wanted only to focus on his blues.
“I don’t care,” Clay said. “A broken heart is just that, who cares how you get there.”
“Name’s Hammer,” Hammer said extending a big burly fist toward Buster. “I think most women think about getting it on with another woman. At least most of the broads I know.”
“Women are beautiful and oozing sex constantly,” Clay added as if he was discussing the plague. “They’re beautiful to men and women. It’s just the way it is.” It was out of the ordinary to hear Clay expound on anything aside from his constant misery.
“But I can’t handle the jealousy,” Buster spat while sipping his coke.
“Jealousy is a disease,” Hammer said, “I see it all the fuckin’ time. I work in a titty bar. Fuckin’ guys hook up with strippers, then they get jealous when the girls are working.
“So what should you do when your heart is breaking,” Clay muttered.
“Get laid,” Hammer said, “and keep getting laid until you get over it. You’re not alone, goddamnit.”
“I’m not sure I can handle it, either,” Buster said and his constant smile wavered.
“Do you have kids?” Hammer said.
“Yeah, two,” Buster returned
“Sorry Pal,” Hammer said, “that puts you into another league.”
“Whatta ya mean?” Buster said.
“All bets are off when it comes to kids,” Hammer said and shoved his empty tumbler toward the edge of the bar. Nyla made a bee-line to retrieve and refill it. “We can talk about chicks all night. You can say what you like about their ups and downs, running off with another chick, watchin’ your chick with another girl, whatever, but when it comes to kids the relationship needs to stay cemented. It’s one thing when two adults want to destroy their relationship, but kids don’t have a say.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Buster said.
“If your wife wants to fool with another chick, that’s cool,” said Hammer. “Tell ‘er to do her thing, bring a girl home for you once in a while, but don’t fall in love and run off. You’re in the kid class.”
Clay shook his head. “I ain’t gonna ever get over this one,” he said.
“That’s bullshit,” Buster spouted. “Someday you’ll wake up and she’ll just be a distant memory.”
“You’re right, goddamnit,” Hammer said taking a gulp of his fresh drink.
“Okay, okay,” Clay said. “I feel like shit, my joints ain’t connected and I can’t think straight, but while you were talking about girls getting it on I almost felt like a human being.”
“Ah,” Hammer said glancing down the bar. “The magic potion for any man with the blues.” He knocked on the bar like a man knocking on a door. Nyla came scurrying.
“Yes darling,” Nyla giggled. “Another Jack?”
“Nope, is Mandy working?” Hammer said.
“Yeah sure,” Nyla grinned.
Nyla looked perplexed then it dawned on her and she disappeared. Five minutes passed and she returned sporting fresh lipstick. Nyla’s pure alabaster skin glowed with a warm crimson hue, she seemed to be panting behind the bar as if anticipation swept over her and it did.
Mandy strolled out of the kitchen giggling as if she was walking on seat foam. Her cheeks were also rosy with blush and her bright red hair bounced on her shoulders. She approached the waitress stand and ducked under the hinged portion of the bar and came up face to face with Nyla albeit a couple of inches taller.
All three brothers stopped talking and watched as the two women faced each other and the gaze deepened. Their poise, two delicate forms, beautiful, clean, glowing with warmth stood inches apart and their eyes cemented longingly. Nyla slid her hands around Mandy’s waist, and the redhead melted against her. Their lips met with the richness of a deep crimson sunset and sparks flew. Tongues slithered, breasts swelled and pressed together and Clay was gone, sucked into a world of pure adrenaline induced passion. A sight so captivating, so mesmerizing and so tantalizing that his last relationship became a blur of buried bad memories.
Nyla released Mandy as if a magnet, that sought ultimate touch forever, was somehow pried apart. The heat was permeated in the corner of the bar.
“Maybe later?” Mandy questioned craving more.
“There’s no maybe,” Nyla said as she patted Mandy’s ass and glided down the busy bar. There was a dense silence along the Sunday brunch portal. Hammer, Clay and Buster sat slack-jawed.
“Fuck carpet munchers,” came a voice from behind Hammer.
“I’d slap the bitch and butt-fuck her,” another voice slammed the mystic aura.
Hammer spun on his barstool and came face to face with two out of town scum bags. As a veteran bouncer he immediately recognized two-legged trouble. He sized the two men up quickly, checking for weapons and smacked the first one without a word.
The outlaw’s partner looked around as if searching for a chair, barstool or an exit, but he was too slow. Stocky Buster tackled the bigger man mid-waist and drove him to the floor. Hammer didn’t stop with his slap and backed it with a right that would bust out a door. The man spun over a table and hit the floor.
Marko joined the scene immediately. Buster wrestled on top of the scruffy bastard and hammered a couple of punches to the man’s face.
“That’s enough,” Marko said firmly. Although Hammer had Mark by 2 inches and 50 pounds, he knew of Mark’s extensive training and experience. He also respected Marko’s responsibilities in the Cantina. The two bikers pulled themselves to their feet and dusted the peanut shells from their greasy Levis and denim vests. Mark smelled meth chemicals on their clothing.
“Okay motherfucker,” Trouble said. “This isn’t the last you’ve seen of me.”
“I hope not,” Hammer said.
The other lowlife reached under his vest and Marko trapped his hand and twisted it into submission readily. A 4-inch Benchmade, locking blade knife fell to the concrete deck. Marko retrieved it.
“That’s my knife,” the skinny dude snapped.
The skinny sonuvabitch glared, spit on the deck and the two left. “We should have finished it,” Hammer said.
Marko could see Frankie, the little ex-drug addict standing near the door. He nodded to him and Frankie followed them out the door.
“It’s not over with them,” Marko said.”We’ve got a big parking lot.”
Episode 39: Happy Hour
By Robin Technologies |
Bandit’s Cantina opened at 5:00 sharp, like a Broadway Play curtain. The staff took great pride in preparation and execution as if a bank president was standing, glaring at his pocket watch, as Marko hit the lights and unlocked the mighty oak doors.
The bar was restocked and spotless due to Nyla’s bubbly efforts. Mandy and Tina cleaned and prepped the tables, and the Chinaman, on the job for hours, set up the free Happy Hour buffet with the quiet assistance of his Mexican staff. Marko tried to hide remnants of the previous night, unknowing of what was to come.
Christine stumbled from Marko’s Cantina apartment, swung her sensitive pussy and pulsating legs over her Softail and rode out of the parking lot. Her rumor control communication system kicked in before she filled her fatbobs at the Mobil station.
Marko noted uncommon hustle and bustle outside the Cantina and pulled the leaded window curtain aside. Bikes and cars were fighting for parking spots in the lot. The line at the door spread passed the motorcycle-only parking area. The crowd was teaming with chatter, in a tenuous manner, as if they might witness crumpled, bullet riddled bodies on the floor. A local television station van pulled up at the curb. Several reporters knocked incessantly at the door for their inalienable rights to the story.
Marko dealt with reporters in the hills of Afghanistan, on movie sets and during the O.J. Simpson trial. He was a writer, in his own training right, but he detested the clamoring, imperious antics of the press.
Earlier he called Frankie, an ex-drug addict, to help with the door. Frankie, an odd sort, the son of a bicycle riding alcoholic who frequented the local seaside dives and worked odd jobs for booze, lived a similar existence. Marko was confident that he would take the job of perceived power with overt concern. He’d stand the post like a fresh boot camp graduate and never budge from his duties.
The doors opened to a hushed crowd, as the mariachi band set up on the stand. Frankie, a short, stubby non-descript man with a ruddy, over toasted face and scattered brownish hair, wore a Cantina staff parka with pride and demanded that the younger crowd display appropriate I.D.s. The word was out about the shoot-out and the patrons scanned the room hurriedly looking for clues. Marko dealt with the press who wanted interviews with Bandit. “He’s not on the premises,” Marko answered, but their insistence continued.
“Can you tell us what happened,” a reporter demanded.
“I’m sorry,” Marko said, “I wasn’t here. That portion of the staff is off today.”
“That’s bullshit,” the dapper reporter dug, “maybe I should run a security check on you?”
“Maybe you should,” Marko said and pushed him aside. “I have paying customers to look after.”
The Cantina quickly filled to over-flowing. Patrons found the freshly spackled bullet holes in the plaster, blood stains and bullet chipped furniture.
The night rocked on to record sales, behind mariachis with steel and acoustic guitars and wide brimmed sombreros strumming spicy love songs to the inquisitive crowd. The Cantina was jammed and all the new patrons craved to know Bandit’s whereabouts. Locals knew that Bandit sightings were rare occurrences.
As the night wore on Marko had his hands full. The rumors of violence induced fights between usually peaceful men. The air was teaming with curiosity and brazenness. Arguments flourished, and alcohol inflamed the heated demand for answers. As the booze settled in, some accused Marko and Bandit of making up the violent tale as a marketing ruse. Frankie handled the door and Indian John and Marko manhandled the sloppy quarrelsome patrons.
Just after 10:30 in walked another reporter from the Long Beach Grunion Gazette. She was knockout. She stood 5’6″, and could’ve been an Anne Klien model outta Vogue magazine. The tan linen suit fit her like a condom.
Her hair was deep amber brunette that curved inward to cupped her soft features. She stood in the doorway to the packed rough and boisterous Cantina crowd, as if the virgin Mary had entered the fray to calm the wild wanton throng. She scanned the rocking ruffian mob confidently. A small engraved plastic badge, above a panting right boob, reflected her stature to Marko from across the room. He approached her, but she scanned his security professionalism with disdain and strolled across the floor of the saloon toward the island bar in the back. Her eyes were set on Nyla who scurried back and forth behind the teak counter filling drinks, sliding bottles of beer, slapping half drunk customers, who argued as if they had pistols strapped to their hips and were itchin’ for a gunfight.
She focused on the cotton gathered top that Nyla’s sizable tits bubbled over and Nyla’s open jubilant demeanor. She handled every customer as if each was a long lost cousin. She took their curvature stares with aplomb, their jokes with brother-like glee, their overt passes with madam confidence and warm love-interest offers with compassion. There was something else, a point of intrigue that immediately attracted the reporter from Long Beach. The way Nyla looked at and dealt with the saucy waitresses, especially the redhead Mandy.
They shared a knowing bond, like co-workers should, but there was something more. The way Nyla’s eyes danced over Mandy’s curvaceous body and they touched delicately at the waitress station exchanging drinks, checks and cash.
Within 5 feet of the bar Nyla spotted the dress approaching over the husky shoulder and vest belonging to a massive biker, who was working on his fifth margarita and beginning to lean heavily on the bar. He was taking up two stools at the corner. For a dark second in the dim rebellious Cantina her eyes met the blue pools heading her way. “A lesbian reporter?” Nyla pondered.
“Hey ya big battleship,” she hollered at the biker over the steel guitars and chatter.
He turned slowly, his eyes focusing in slow motion. “Yeah baby?” he muttered.
“Move over,” Nyla ordered. “Got a classy customer comin’ in for a landing.”
The battleship on two engineer boots tried to turn and assess the new client and do as he was ordered. He stumbled, hung onto the bar and slid sideways to the right to free up the corner stool.
Nyla licked her lips and wished she had a mirror and lipstick handy. She knew better than to be overt and moved down the bar to assist other hollering patrons. The woman strode up to the bar confidently, set her purse on the edge of the thick teak and followed Nyla’s bouncy ass toward the other end of the bar. She waited patiently watching Nyla’s bubbly banter, her body and the soft curve of her neck. Two long minutes later behind the barroom clamor Nyla returned. “What can I get ya?” Nyla bounced.
“Corona and a lime,” the girl said and Nyla was caught off guard. She fully expected a chardonnay order.
“Comin’ right up,” Nyla said thinking that the bombshell in the shear blouse was trying to fit in. She’d find out to what extent? “What brings you to this nasty-assed joint?”
“My editor sent me to do a feature on the shoot out,” the reporter said drilling Nyla with her hot gaze.
“You’ll need a shot of Commerativo to go with that beer,” Nyla coerced, “to build the right ambiance for the story. What’s your name?”
“Rachel, from the Grunion Gazette,” She said extending her manicured hand. Nyla looked her over for the first time, holding her hand for obviously long moments. She was hot from her soft ruby lips and carefully carved eyebrows, to that delicate pointy nose and warm cheek line. Her smile danced across her lips unlike most ardent unscrupulous reporters exhuming every nasty detail. She was confident but not hardened. Nyla’s eyes danced cautiously along the soft line of her milky cleavage, as she removed her jacket, then through the shear blouse to discover that Rachel wasn’t wearing a bra, but just a thin silk camisole, that barely concealed the dark rose color of her ample nipples. Nyla could sense an immediate warmth in her loins.
“Can you tell me about last night?” Rachel said, downed the hearty shot and backed it with a gulp of Corona.
“Not now,” Nyla protested responding to demands from the other end of the bar. “I’ll be back in a sec…” Nyla exchanged her empty shot glass with a full one, then disappeared down the bar.
By 12:30 the crowd was beginning to disperse. Marko helped riders stow their bikes and obtain rides home. Frankie was off the door, patrolling the parking lot. Bits and pieces of jaded information slipped from the staff and the crowd was duly entertained with the saga. The story would grow in proportions over the years to come.
Rachel finished her forth shot and second beer, completely mesmerized by Nyla’s bartender antics. “You’ve got to tell me about last night,” She slurred her words through a sexy giggle as Nyla leaned over the deep sink in front of her revealing her succulent bouncy cleavage. “My boss will kill me, if I don’t come back with a story.”
“You like talking to women, don’t you?” Nyla said.
“That’s not all,” Rachel gasp at the sight of Nyla’s hardening nipples and the soft calling of her perfect jiggling orbs.
Nyla gently removed Rachel’s hand from her blouse and sucked each fingertip.
“You’ve heard all the stories from the guys,” Nyla said taking one of Rachel’s wet fingers and moving it along the top of her breasts, then slipping the warm hand between them.
Melting, Rachel stood and removed her Chiffon blouse and tossed it on the empty stool beside her. “I need the story from your lips,” Rachel whispered tasting her tingling fingertips.
“Speaking of lips,” Nyla kidded, “how about your own story. That’s old news, let’s make our own. Did you drive tonight?” She teased Rachel pouring another shot with a wry grin. “How about a story you’ll never forget?”
“I took a cab. How about a shot for you,” Rachel said taunting Nyla.
Nyla glanced at the Indian Motorcycle wall clock and hollered, “Last call for alcohol!” Then she grabbed the woven tassel on the ship’s bell and rang it ardently.
“I’m ready,” Nyla said grabbing the dark bottle of Kahlua. The Cantina crowd dwindled to half-a-dozen stumbling stiffs. But Nyla brought them around as she ducked under the bartop and came out the other side. A couple of inches shorter than Rachel she yanked her off the barstool and kissed her.
The mariachis were long gone, but the jukebox spilled a comforting Four Tops tune throughout the quieting saloon. Nyla embraced the woman thoroughly, kissing her softly on the lips and turning the haunting brunette until her back was to a checkered red and white table cloth covered table. Mandy saw what was happening and cleared the table. Rachel sat on the edge, stunned by the kiss.
She pulled at the skirt’s edge and poured the dark sweet liquor into the woman’s succulent navel and buried her face in the soft container warming the liquid desert.
Marko rushed over and chased off the last of the drunks being drawn to the action. “It’s closing time boys, show’s over,” he ordered firmly herding them toward the door.
“Not bad, I could use another one of those,” Nyla said between kisses to her stomach.
“Please,” Rachel murmured in a euphoric daze, and pulled her top above her tits.
Mandy stood by giggling, hoping she’d get a turn.
Nyla tipped the bottle and poured the syrupy liquid from her navel to her nipples. Mandy’s mouth watered as Nyla’s tongue traced a warm path up her torso to her substantial boobs. Nyla, continued to kiss her way up the girls silk-like body to her neck, then leaned over Rachel and pulled her top free to dangle one of her sizeable tits in the girls mouth. Rachel sucked and kissed hungrily.
Rachel reached up and hugged her around the neck. Panting heavily she tried to talk as Nyla pulled her to her feet. Mandy pouted as they headed toward the long carved stairway to Bandit’s den. “Nyla, can I help?” she called.
Rachel turned and looked at her with a sinful smile of approval, then back at Nyla, “I’m not that drunk, sweetie. If Nyla doesn’t mind, the more the merrier.”
Just another night in the Cantina.