HAPPY HOUR PART 9 The two black-clad and helmeted bikers stood at the entrance of the bar, obvious to the bar?s clientele. An uncomfortable hush fell over the Cantina like a dense fog over the San Pedro Harbor. ?

Mandy pulled the slider back on the MAC 10 then laid it on the bar, aimed at the two men. ?Marco held the riot gun at his side. ?There was no effort to conceal the weapons. ?Rather, Mandy and Marco?s posture indicated an ease and confidence with their weapons. ?And a willingness to use them. Nyla the bartender moved to the end of the bar as instructed in their drills. She lifted the receiver and poised one finger over the blinking red key. Her heart pounded thrusting her cleavage even farther over the edges of her blouse. ?

?????????One of the men took a step forward, then was stopped by the other. For a heartbeat, the scene in the bar was frozen. Other bikes in the bar checked their weapon, but weren’t ready to make them known, and Marko was glad. He didn’t need a drunk or a hero to make a move unnecessarily. ?As the two men scanned the bar searching for someone another biker, big Moses stood in the back of the room and gradually pulled his leather jacked aside to reveal a stainless 4-inch barrel .357 mag. Then another rider independent of the first got to his feet gradually putting his hands on his hips revealing a small automatic in his waist band, then another rider stood until the room of men stood as one. All armed to the teeth. Apparently thinking the better of it, the two men turned in unison and left. ??

????????The bar soon resumed its normal chaotic buzz of boisterous conversation and juke box music. ?A few continued to watch Mandy, looking for a clue as to what had just transpired. ?Even Marco was a bit confused. Put the arsenal back in place, Marco turned to Mandy. ?What the hell was that?? ?Marco, who had been familiar with weapons combat, usually liked to know the situation before charging in. ?This situation was sudden and he was unsure as to what just happened.

??????????Mandy first looked at the crowd to make sure everybody was back to normal. ?She then turned to Marco. ??I spotted them in the back alley. ?From their demeanor and weapons, I recognized a professional hit. ?I think those guys are from a Chinese gang that has been trying to gain a foothold in the harbor. ?It?s one of those family things, Tongs I think you might call them.?

???????????That?s old-time organized crime.? ?Marco was familiar with the more violent aspects of Chinese culture, having studied various martial arts since he was a child. There were many up-start young Chinese gangs that never lasted long. ?They were usually absorbed by established older, more organized groups with connections to Mainland China. ?Contrary to all the kung-fu movies, these Tong clans worked behind the scenes, preferring to use coercion and intimidation rather than outright violence.

The history of Tong clans goes back to the time of the first Chinese immigrants who built the railroads in much of the west coast of America. ?Even though the surface culture of most Chinese-Americans reflected all the modern changes that effected the culture at large, the Tong factor was deep within the character of family structure. ?This was less-like the image of the Italian Mafia, and more like a stern uncle who demanded respect.

?Mandy, if it is what you say, it can be a serious problem for us. ?We need to contact Bandit.?

?I did that first thing,? Mandy said searching Marco?s face for a clue to his apparent concern.

?This isn?t a gang like we?re used to. ?They aren?t direct like a biker gang or a group of pissed off longshoremen. This can get really complicated.? As they talked, Salty Mary sidled up to the end of the bar. ?Salty Mary, a local bag-lady who hung around the neighborhood, was named for the vodka and grapefruit drink-Salty Dog for which she had a preference. ?She nuzzled up close to Mandy.

?Not now Mary, I?m busy,? Mandy dismissed the old lush with a wave of her hand.

?No drink Missy,? Mary had a distracting lisp, because of missing teeth, that made her speech almost impenetrable. ?Mandy understood her. ??Them?s guys is still hanging around in the alley. ?I thought you?d likes ta? know,? Mary slurred through her saliva webbed lips.

?Thanks, Mary,? Mandy said quickly pouring Mary about four fingers of vodka in a glass. ?

?Marco, quick,? she grabbed the Mac 10 again and moved past Marco at a half-trot. ?She approached the back kitchen door cautiously. ?Marco was quickly at her side, riot gun in hand.

Mandy and Marco moved silently as one. ?Nods and silent gestures communicated their tactics. ?As Mandy pressed her body against the fog-wet, clammy brick walls of the cantina, Marco darted across the alley. ?They now had the advantage of positions of withering cross-fire. ?The both of them moved with the stealth of a couple of alley cats.

Mandy held the MAC 10 horizontally in her left hand so that the ejected shells would fall away, not in her line of vision. ?Darting her head around the side of a packing crate, she was able to spot the two black-clad bikers. ?The flash of her movements was caught by one of the two bikers. ?The both of them, alarmed moved into combat position.

Marco moved from his position to get a better angle. ?The two men turned in unison, like a joined machine. ?They raised their weapons, one aiming in the direction of Marco?s movement. ?As Mandy sought to catch another glimpse of the two distracted men, the other swung his weapons in Mandy?s direction. The explosive noise of the rapid shotgun fire was amplified by the walls of the alley. The crate that hid Mandy was peppered with double ought buckshot pellets. ?A couple of pellets blasted through the wooden crate, zinging around Mandy?s body. She had trained for such an occurance, but the real thing rattled her bones.

As Mandy flinched from the first blast, Marco immediately attempted to return fire. He rounded the corner from his position and leveled the riot shotgun, then he heard two cracks. Obviously an automatic handgun. In most normal combat situations, the first ring of fire so rattles even the most seasoned warrior, that there is usually confusion and chaos. ?There was no chaos for any of these combatants. The biker on the ground continued to fire. ?The standing biker fired once more then dropped to one knee. One of the pellets creased Marco?s scalp, sending a shower of blood over his forehead. The kneeling biker in black watched a pool of blood form at his feet. He cried out and his firing brother turned. Just then there was another crack and the shotgun burst from the assailants fingertips and dropped to the pavement. The terrorist looking biker looked around half terrified, grabbed his partner and helped him to one of the high-powered dirt bikes. They sped off without looking back.

Mandy ran to Marco. ??You?re hit!? ?Marco touched his forehead then looked at his hand. He looked at Mandy’s weapon. There was no sign it had been fired. ?

?Scalp wounds always bleed a lot. ?I don?t think it?s bad.? ? He held his head as they moved quickly to the kitchen door. ?This is not good,? Marco kept muttering. ??Bandit is going to have to be involved in this one. ?We can?t take care of this on our own.? ?Okay, okay, just let me take care of this wound. ?Then we?ll talk to Bandit.

Just then Bandit opened the rear door dressed to ride, “I wish you guys would keep it down out here. I’ll be back shortly.” –Nuttboy

Mandy absently brushed a lock of her auburn hair from her face as she rapidly poured four mugs of beer. It was happy hour and the place was packed like coins in a roll. ?Looking out over the crowd in Bandit?s Cantina, she shook her head. The crowd of men started coming in just after five o?clock and they continued to arrive hour after hour. That?s the way it usually was on a Friday night at the Cantina, non-stop action, non-stop noise, non-stop beer, and for Mandy and the other waitresses, non-stop work. ??She didn?t mind the pace too much, it made the evening past fast.

She grabbed all four mug handles in one hand, in the other she carried bags of pretzels and chips. ?Most of the guys in the bar worked in the harbor or nearby. ?They were hard working men and hard partiers too. What made Mandy?s job easier was the fact that the men recognized that she too was working hard and didn?t mind hard partying as long as they respected her. ? There were a few times when she had to clarify her status to a newcomer who hadn?t been informed about Cantina decorum. ?Sometimes she had to quickly make it clear that she was one of the team in this bar. ?She might need to swear like a longshoreman. ?There had been a couple of times she even had to deck a drunk who forgot the rules.

Tonight she managed to handle everyone and everything. The pace was frantic but smooth. Nyla bounced around inside the bar, mixin’ and pouring as fast as she could attending to the waitresses and the guys bellied up to the solid oak bar. As soon as Mandy set the four beers down and picked up the cash, she motioned to Ruby to take her area while she went outside for a quick smoke. ?She moved through the noisy kitchen, passed the Chinaman and his south of the border crew, the chips, salsa and pots of refried beans to the quiet of the back alley. The dank narrow street was lit by the acrid, yellowish glow from the light above the steelback door. ?Mandy stood on the concrete landing just to the side of the door, somewhat out of the lights cast halo. ?She fumbled in her barmaids apron for her pack of cigarettes.

She was suddenly startled by the sinister exhaust pipe rap that vanished as quickly as it came. ??Her head snapped up and her eyes searched the darkness of the alley. In the jumbled collection of boxes, dumpsters, barrels, and assorted trashmade she was concealed from the light. The sound was not the frequent rumble of a Harley, but sharp whine of a foreign make. ?

Just then, just beyond the end of the alley, she heard the mechanical snap of a kick stand being put in place. Bandit and Marko had taught their staff in the arts of close- quarters combat, mostly for crowd control, but it gave the girls a sense of knowledge and security when something went wrong. ?Mandy crept to the edge of the landing. ?There at the end of the alley stood two riders and their bikes. ?Carefully so as not to be caught, she leaned farther out to try to catch a glimpse of their faces. ? What she saw was two tall, muscular riders all dressed in black motocross leathers and full helmets with blackened visors. There was something sinister about the mechanical movements of the two men. ???Just at the knee of one of the riders Mandy caught the glint of light reflected off of the coldsteel barrel of a sawed-off, pump-action shotgun. Mandy stiffened at the sight of the shotguns.

Mandy quickly but quietly returned to the bar. In the kitchen. She picked up the phone, dialed Bandit?s code, then pressed 911X. ?This was the code sign that warned Bandit of an emergency situation. ?

As she exited the kitchen and moved behind the bar, she scanned the bar room for Marko. ? ?Damn, she muttered to herself, ?where is he when you really need him?? ? Finally she heard Marko’s easy going laugh on the other side of the room. ? ?Marko,? she shouted and gave him the code hand signal for armed intruders. As he casually rounded the end of the bar, he spotted Mandy squatting down and unsheathing a MAC 10. ?There was a jaw clenching sternness to the way she slammed home the magazine of ammunition.

Nyla took note of the action and checked her weapon carefully sheathed under the edge of the bar.

Silently handing the automatic handgun to Marko, Mandy loaded her own 12 guage riotgun. ?Just as she stood up the two motocross riders entered the room. There wasn’t time to clear the room and panic would mean a bloody melee, so she thought she’d let them play out their hand???..

Mandy absently brushed a lock of her auburn hair from her face as she rapidly poured four mugs of beer. It was happy hour and the place was packed like coins in a roll. ?Looking out over the crowd in Bandit?s Cantina, she shook her head. The crowd of men started coming in just after five o?clock and they continued to arrive hour after hour. That?s the way it usually was on a Friday night at the Cantina, non-stop action, non-stop noise, non-stop beer, and for Mandy and the other waitresses, non-stop work. ??She didn?t mind the pace too much, it made the evening past fast.

She grabbed all four mug handles in one hand, in the other she carried bags of pretzels and chips. ?Most of the guys in the bar worked in the harbor or nearby. ?They were hard working men and hard partiers too. What made Mandy?s job easier was the fact that the men recognized that she too was working hard and didn?t mind hard partying as long as they respected her. ? There were a few times when she had to clarify her status to a newcomer who hadn?t been informed about Cantina decorum. ?Sometimes she had to quickly make it clear that she was one of the team in this bar. ?She might need to swear like a longshoreman. ?There had been a couple of times she even had to deck a drunk who forgot the rules.

Tonight she managed to handle everyone and everything. The pace was frantic but smooth. Nyla bounced around inside the bar, mixin’ and pouring as fast as she could attending to the waitresses and the guys bellied up to the solid oak bar. As soon as Mandy set the four beers down and picked up the cash, she motioned to Ruby to take her area while she went outside for a quick smoke. ?She moved through the noisy kitchen, passed the Chinaman and his south of the border crew, the chips, salsa and pots of refried beans to the quiet of the back alley. The dank narrow street was lit by the acrid, yellowish glow from the light above the steelback door. ?Mandy stood on the concrete landing just to the side of the door, somewhat out of the lights cast halo. ?She fumbled in her barmaids apron for her pack of cigarettes.

She was suddenly startled by the sinister exhaust pipe rap that vanished as quickly as it came. ??Her head snapped up and her eyes searched the darkness of the alley. In the jumbled collection of boxes, dumpsters, barrels, and assorted trashmade she was concealed from the light. The sound was not the frequent rumble of a Harley, but sharp whine of a foreign make. ?

Just then, just beyond the end of the alley, she heard the mechanical snap of a kick stand being put in place. Bandit and Marko had taught their staff in the arts of close- quarters combat, mostly for crowd control, but it gave the girls a sense of knowledge and security when something went wrong. ?Mandy crept to the edge of the landing. ?There at the end of the alley stood two riders and their bikes. ?Carefully so as not to be caught, she leaned farther out to try to catch a glimpse of their faces. ? What she saw was two tall, muscular riders all dressed in black motocross leathers and full helmets with blackened visors. There was something sinister about the mechanical movements of the two men. ???Just at the knee of one of the riders Mandy caught the glint of light reflected off of the coldsteel barrel of a sawed-off, pump-action shotgun. Mandy stiffened at the sight of the shotguns.

Mandy quickly but quietly returned to the bar. In the kitchen. She picked up the phone, dialed Bandit?s code, then pressed 911X. ?This was the code sign that warned Bandit of an emergency situation. ?

As she exited the kitchen and moved behind the bar, she scanned the bar room for Marko. ? ?Damn, she muttered to herself, ?where is he when you really need him?? ? Finally she heard Marko’s easy going laugh on the other side of the room. ? ?Marko,? she shouted and gave him the code hand signal for armed intruders. As he casually rounded the end of the bar, he spotted Mandy squatting down and unsheathing a MAC 10. ?There was a jaw clenching sternness to the way she slammed home the magazine of ammunition.

Nyla took note of the action and checked her weapon carefully sheathed under the edge of the bar.

Silently handing the automatic handgun to Marko, Mandy loaded her own 12 guage riotgun. ?Just as she stood up the two motocross riders entered the room. There wasn’t time to clear the room and panic would mean a bloody melee, so she thought she’d let them play out their hand???..

Los Angeles Detective Joe Hernandez clicked the pen, closed the notepad and put it back in his coat pocket. When Marko eased close to the officer to deliver a drink, the detective shot out his left arm faster than Marko could blink. The Joe grabbed Marko?s collar and began to twist, pulling Marko towards him. Marko?s normal cobra-like responses were caught unawares by the officer’s cunning. Marko was helpless as the detectives vice-grip twisted the shirt material, tightening it across Marko?s carotid artery. The last thing Marko remembered is the acrid smell of garlic and chilies on the detective?s breath as he pulled him closer to his face. And the threat whispered between his clenched teeth, ?Don?t fuck with Zorro???.?

When Marko came to, he was in a crumpled pile behind the bar. His first sensation was that he was unable to speak. Holding his neck, Marko slowly rose from behind the bar. As he turned to search for the detective, he saw Hernandez calmly sipping a Margarita and pleasantly chatting with one of the waitresses.

Marko was no slouch in a bar fight or any form of hand-to-hand combat, but he realized that he had slipped with Hernandez. There was something more than deadly martial arts about the detective?s demeanor. Just then Hernandez turned and shot Marko a malevolent look. Marko decided to disarm any chance of open combat, he leaned casually against the back of the bar. Seeing Marko?s compliant posture, just as quickly Hernandez broke open a wide-faced grin. ?Excuse me Marko, would you mind bringing me another Margarita. I mixed the last one myself and I?m not much of a bartender.”

Marko took a cautious step in Hernandez?s direction, then seeing him return to his conversation with the waitress, Marko complied with Hernandez?s request. As he mixed the drink though, he never took his eyes of the detective.

The first rule of combat is to measure the strengths of your enemy?and the weaknesses. Marko was considering Hernandez?s weakness for women when just then; Marko spotted Bandit and Nyla coming through the kitchen entrance in the back of the bar. Bandit?s eyes met Marko?s. Immediately Bandit sensed in Marko a signal of warning. Bandit could read a great deal in most people?s expressions. It had served him well in many a dangerous situation in the past. This evening a misjudgment could prove deadly.

Bandit put his arm back against Nyla?s chest, easing silently back into the shadows. He turned and motioned to Nyla for silence with a finger to his lips. From the dark recess of the kitchen, Bandit watched silently as the drama before him played itself out.

When Marko, who occasionally shot a quick glance to the kitchen to confirm Bandit’s stealth, brought the drink to Hernandez. Joe tried to offer cash for the drink, but Marko wouldn’t take it. ?Marko, can we talk?? the detective asked.

Marko eyed him warily and didn’t respond.

?Well, for now I?ll talk, you listen.

?I own this beat. No body fucks with Zorro. Okay?? The corners of Hernandez?s? mouth turned up in the form of a smile, but it was more the humorless edge of broken glass or the sardonic, permanent ?grin? of a rattlesnake.

Marko smiled slightly confident that the next slip would be the detective’s.

Los Angeles Detective Joe Hernandez clicked the pen, closed the notepad and put it back in his coat pocket. When Marko eased close to the officer to deliver a drink, the detective shot out his left arm faster than Marko could blink. The Joe grabbed Marko?s collar and began to twist, pulling Marko towards him. Marko?s normal cobra-like responses were caught unawares by the officer’s cunning. Marko was helpless as the detectives vice-grip twisted the shirt material, tightening it across Marko?s carotid artery. The last thing Marko remembered is the acrid smell of garlic and chilies on the detective?s breath as he pulled him closer to his face. And the threat whispered between his clenched teeth, ?Don?t fuck with Zorro???.?

When Marko came to, he was in a crumpled pile behind the bar. His first sensation was that he was unable to speak. Holding his neck, Marko slowly rose from behind the bar. As he turned to search for the detective, he saw Hernandez calmly sipping a Margarita and pleasantly chatting with one of the waitresses.

Marko was no slouch in a bar fight or any form of hand-to-hand combat, but he realized that he had slipped with Hernandez. There was something more than deadly martial arts about the detective?s demeanor. Just then Hernandez turned and shot Marko a malevolent look. Marko decided to disarm any chance of open combat, he leaned casually against the back of the bar. Seeing Marko?s compliant posture, just as quickly Hernandez broke open a wide-faced grin. ?Excuse me Marko, would you mind bringing me another Margarita. I mixed the last one myself and I?m not much of a bartender.”

Marko took a cautious step in Hernandez?s direction, then seeing him return to his conversation with the waitress, Marko complied with Hernandez?s request. As he mixed the drink though, he never took his eyes of the detective.

The first rule of combat is to measure the strengths of your enemy?and the weaknesses. Marko was considering Hernandez?s weakness for women when just then; Marko spotted Bandit and Nyla coming through the kitchen entrance in the back of the bar. Bandit?s eyes met Marko?s. Immediately Bandit sensed in Marko a signal of warning. Bandit could read a great deal in most people?s expressions. It had served him well in many a dangerous situation in the past. This evening a misjudgment could prove deadly.

Bandit put his arm back against Nyla?s chest, easing silently back into the shadows. He turned and motioned to Nyla for silence with a finger to his lips. From the dark recess of the kitchen, Bandit watched silently as the drama before him played itself out.

When Marko, who occasionally shot a quick glance to the kitchen to confirm Bandit’s stealth, brought the drink to Hernandez. Joe tried to offer cash for the drink, but Marko wouldn’t take it. ?Marko, can we talk?? the detective asked.

Marko eyed him warily and didn’t respond.

?Well, for now I?ll talk, you listen.

?I own this beat. No body fucks with Zorro. Okay?? The corners of Hernandez?s? mouth turned up in the form of a smile, but it was more the humorless edge of broken glass or the sardonic, permanent ?grin? of a rattlesnake.

Marko smiled slightly confident that the next slip would be the detective’s.

Bandit marched through the massive oak doors packin’ two cases of Jack Black into the near-empty Cantina. It was shift change and Tina was getting ready to leave. Two other waitresses were arriving. “Attention on deck!” Bandit shouted in mock military fashion.

He was greeted with half-hearted salutes and boos. But a quiet countenence fell around the room. Tina, on her way out the door, taped a Bike-Night flier over the broken glass block.

“I hear gunshots,” the Chinaman said in broken English, stumbling through the stainless steel galley doors. The Chinaman was a robust Chinese immigrant and chef. The best Mexican food chef on the port, according to him.

“Fist fighting isn’t allowed in the Cantina,” Bandit said raising one eyebrow to indicate the joke to those who understood, but the Chinaman looked puzzled. Just then the Cantina doors blew open to reveal a bubbly brunette that lit a fire in Bandit?s eyes. Most women did. It was Nyla, the evening shift bartender.

She was tall and slender, full chested and full of life. Her eyes were as dark as her hair. God, she was a knockout. Bounding up to Bandit, she pulled him around after he set the booze on the bar and laid a major lip lock him. “It’s quiet in here,” she whispered in his ear, “let’s go upstairs for a quickie.”

“Get ready, babe,” Bandit said, always anxious to touch Nyla’s creamy thighs. “I’ll be up in 10 minutes.”

Marko rolled a dolly loaded with cases of booze in the front door and wheeled it toward the galley. It would be happy hour shortly and they needed to prepare.

The evening shift waitresses busied themselves cleaning tables, as Bandit went behind the bar, restocked the shelves and poured him a tumbler of Jack and dropped two ice cubes into the amber liquid. He looked out over the bar into the dining room. The place was vacant, but shortly it would be packed like sardines in tin. He helped Marko store the beer and booze.

As he turned to climb the stairs to his apartment above the Cantina and suited citizen pushed in the double Oak doors. Marko immediatly went to greet the young looking, banker type. His suit was well fitted, but he looked like he lived in it. “Can we help you?” Marko said.

“I’m Joe Hernandez, Los Angeles Police Department. Is the owner in?” The officer was clean cut but tired looking. A 5:00 shadow loomed around his jaw and he chewed a tooth pick in a discusted fashion, like he didn’t want to be there.

“Nope,” Marko said, “But I’m security. Can I help you?”

“It’s about gunshots.” The officer put his badge away and pulled out a small memo pad and drew a slim Cross pen out of his white dress shirt pocket. He looked at Marko with the skill of an investigator ready to bury anyone at the slip of a tongue. He knew he wouldn’t find out anything about the shooter, but if this guy slipped, he could pull down the entire business. The community would rather it went away regardless.

“Can’t tell you much. No one was hurt,” Marko said pointing to the bullet lodged in the bar pillar.

“Tell me about the owner?” Officer Hernandez asked.

“Can I get you a Coke or some chips and salsa,” Marko said and walked away from the cop…

Bandit marched through the massive oak doors packin’ two cases of Jack Black into the near-empty Cantina. It was shift change and Tina was getting ready to leave. Two other waitresses were arriving. “Attention on deck!” Bandit shouted in mock military fashion.

He was greeted with half-hearted salutes and boos. But a quiet countenence fell around the room. Tina, on her way out the door, taped a Bike-Night flier over the broken glass block.

“I hear gunshots,” the Chinaman said in broken English, stumbling through the stainless steel galley doors. The Chinaman was a robust Chinese immigrant and chef. The best Mexican food chef on the port, according to him.

“Fist fighting isn’t allowed in the Cantina,” Bandit said raising one eyebrow to indicate the joke to those who understood, but the Chinaman looked puzzled. Just then the Cantina doors blew open to reveal a bubbly brunette that lit a fire in Bandit?s eyes. Most women did. It was Nyla, the evening shift bartender.

She was tall and slender, full chested and full of life. Her eyes were as dark as her hair. God, she was a knockout. Bounding up to Bandit, she pulled him around after he set the booze on the bar and laid a major lip lock him. “It’s quiet in here,” she whispered in his ear, “let’s go upstairs for a quickie.”

“Get ready, babe,” Bandit said, always anxious to touch Nyla’s creamy thighs. “I’ll be up in 10 minutes.”

Marko rolled a dolly loaded with cases of booze in the front door and wheeled it toward the galley. It would be happy hour shortly and they needed to prepare.

The evening shift waitresses busied themselves cleaning tables, as Bandit went behind the bar, restocked the shelves and poured him a tumbler of Jack and dropped two ice cubes into the amber liquid. He looked out over the bar into the dining room. The place was vacant, but shortly it would be packed like sardines in tin. He helped Marko store the beer and booze.

As he turned to climb the stairs to his apartment above the Cantina and suited citizen pushed in the double Oak doors. Marko immediatly went to greet the young looking, banker type. His suit was well fitted, but he looked like he lived in it. “Can we help you?” Marko said.

“I’m Joe Hernandez, Los Angeles Police Department. Is the owner in?” The officer was clean cut but tired looking. A 5:00 shadow loomed around his jaw and he chewed a tooth pick in a discusted fashion, like he didn’t want to be there.

“Nope,” Marko said, “But I’m security. Can I help you?”

“It’s about gunshots.” The officer put his badge away and pulled out a small memo pad and drew a slim Cross pen out of his white dress shirt pocket. He looked at Marko with the skill of an investigator ready to bury anyone at the slip of a tongue. He knew he wouldn’t find out anything about the shooter, but if this guy slipped, he could pull down the entire business. The community would rather it went away regardless.

“Can’t tell you much. No one was hurt,” Marko said pointing to the bullet lodged in the bar pillar.

“Tell me about the owner?” Officer Hernandez asked.

“Can I get you a Coke or some chips and salsa,” Marko said and walked away from the cop…

A ’91 Chevy pickup screeched into the Cantina parking lot. It was bright red with traditional flames lapping over the hood and down the side of the cab. It was lowered and looked mean with dark tinted windows. Bandit jumped from the cab. He appeared agile for his age, although an old shoulder injury was inhibiting his work outs and a twisted knee from years of kick-start Harleys was clicking from time to time. “Marko, Gimme a hand.” He hollered and began to unload cases of booze from the bed of the truck. “Should be a big weekend.”

“I don’t know,” Marko said. “At one time a good shoot-out brought people around. Now, with these new guys, they run off.”

“Another shooting?” Bandit said setting the heavy case down. “Whatta ya make of it?”

“I’ve got my thoughts, but nothing concrete yet,” Marko said. “You know me, I’ve never been a snitch” Marko’s short salt and pepper hair was always a tad mussed. He trained constantly, did stunt work for the studios, and taught weapons use and artillery.

Just then Slick strolled out of the restaurant tucking in his shirt and heading toward his black Corvette.

Bandit looked at the empty parking lot ignoring the bartender who hadn’t been around that long. “We won’t last long this way,” he said. The big man with the salt and pepper goatee and thinning hair, had put all he had into the Cantina. He worked around the grounds constantly and lived up stairs. It was his last gasp, for something to keep his lifestyle alive and give him something to retire on. “How’s this new guy working out?” Bandit said loading cases of booze on the rusty dolly.

“He could be the problem,” Marko said watching as the skinny drug addict pulled along side of them, waved and peeled out of the parking lot…

A ’91 Chevy pickup screeched into the Cantina parking lot. It was bright red with traditional flames lapping over the hood and down the side of the cab. It was lowered and looked mean with dark tinted windows. Bandit jumped from the cab. He appeared agile for his age, although an old shoulder injury was inhibiting his work outs and a twisted knee from years of kick-start Harleys was clicking from time to time. “Marko, Gimme a hand.” He hollered and began to unload cases of booze from the bed of the truck. “Should be a big weekend.”

“I don’t know,” Marko said. “At one time a good shoot-out brought people around. Now, with these new guys, they run off.”

“Another shooting?” Bandit said setting the heavy case down. “Whatta ya make of it?”

“I’ve got my thoughts, but nothing concrete yet,” Marko said. “You know me, I’ve never been a snitch” Marko’s short salt and pepper hair was always a tad mussed. He trained constantly, did stunt work for the studios, and taught weapons use and artillery.

Just then Slick strolled out of the restaurant tucking in his shirt and heading toward his black Corvette.

Bandit looked at the empty parking lot ignoring the bartender who hadn’t been around that long. “We won’t last long this way,” he said. The big man with the salt and pepper goatee and thinning hair, had put all he had into the Cantina. He worked around the grounds constantly and lived up stairs. It was his last gasp, for something to keep his lifestyle alive and give him something to retire on. “How’s this new guy working out?” Bandit said loading cases of booze on the rusty dolly.

“He could be the problem,” Marko said watching as the skinny drug addict pulled along side of them, waved and peeled out of the parking lot…

Mad Marko, security, looked around Bandit’s Cantina. Most of the patrons had wandered out to their bikes, fired ’em up and peeled out. This was the second time in a week that the place had been shot at, and it was taking it’s toll on business. The place was once the most popular biker bar in town. Something was wrong.

Jimbo meandered out to his Panhead and fired it to life. “You’re gonna have to tell Bandit,” he said to Marko on his way out. “This place will be dead, or someone in it, if something isn’t done.” He glanced in the direction of Slick who was motioning for Tina to follow him into the galley. Jimbo was a big man with long baby-shit brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. He’d been riding almost 20 year. He was a biker first, a dock worker second.

He wanted Tina, although he knew her weakness. Working on the docks meant good pay but lousy access to the fairer sex. He was supposed to meet his latest girl at the bar, but like most he dated, docks and bikes were not that appealing. He was stood up again, although he wasn’t a bad looking sort.

Tina the redheaded bombshell with just a smattering of freckles placed seductively on those creamy white cheeks followed tall Slick into the Kitchen. Slick turned his big dilated pupils on Tina and licked his lips. “You didn’t want to leave with that big galute, did you?”

“This is fucked up, Slick,” Tina Said. “Is someone trying to kill you?”

Slick pulled a small glass vial from his vest and dipped the chained-to-the-cap silver spoon into the powdery substance and lifted it to her nostrils. She inhaled once, then took another blast to her other nostril. Slick helped himself to two sizable blasts and put the vial away. “Come on, baby,” Slick said pulling her into a storage room full of the smells of tortillas, and salsa. “Who would want to kill me?” His voice wasn’t entirely convincing, but Tina was beginning to lose the gnawing in her gut. The sensation of uncaring superficial lust rolling over her.

“Ah fuck it,” Tina said licking her lips, “who cares.” She sat down on a bag of flower and spread her soft pliable legs. She had quit working out since she met Slick and his vial. Slick moved closer and unzipped his fly….