It was another cold, windy winter, rainy day on the coast. The economy forced patrons to stay home with six-packs, and the girls were dragging ass, protesting dismal tips. A crack like a gunshot split the mood and everyone in the Cantina looked around. Then they heard it again, like a gang war erupted in the projects across the busy Harbor Boulevard, but this had cadence. It was a motorcycle ripping across town like Bandit tearing Nyla’s dress off.
The sound was a piercing anti-noise roadblock decibel level, then the bike screeched into the Bandit’s Cantina parking lot and slid to a stop, the exhaust rattling windows. Marko headed for the big oak doors. Even Clay turned away from his third Corona and the Chinaman pushed open the metal swinging door into the galley to see who it was.
The motorcycle glistened old school, a candy- apple, House of Kolors vibrant red with Perewitz traditional flames. It was a ’56 Panhead with an automatic advance distributor, lot of chrome and upswept Paughco fishtail pipes that reached for the gray sky above. That loud drive train was housed in an all-wild stock rigid frame raked a half-inch and aimed at the sky with an all-chrome, wide Paughco, extended tapered-leg springer. Polished sheet metal included a Sportster tank, no front fender, and a classic ribbed rear fender, with a chromed twisted sissy bar that leaned babe-grabbing back and stuck three feet in the wet air. Fuckin’ bike was a chick-magnet.
The rider pulled into the center of the Cantina entrance and dismounted, as if escrow papers were just signed and he owned the joint. This way the bike was out of the rain, covered by the adobe overhang above the front door.
“You can park in the bike-designated parking area,” Marko said opening the door to welcome the wild Italian rider in.
“Fuck that,” he said, “Tell Bandit St. Marie is here.”
Larry St. Marie was slightly short of average height and build. His curvy Italian hair was long with gray in the temples. He wore all black, black leather pants, black Justin cowboy boots, and a black leather shirt over a black t-shirt and a black vest. Even his mustache and goatee were black, along with his narrow shades.
“Where is that madman?” Larry said jerking his beanie helmet off and throwing it in the bushes, replacing it with a red leather beret.
He strolled in the open door and directly across the foyer, the dining room and into the bar where Nyla met him. “A double shot of Casadores,” he said pulling Nyla’s gathered top away from her ample breast and looking down at her succulent cleavage and hardening nipples. “Nice. I take it you’re glad to see me.”
Buster and Clay looked down at the wild looking outlaw and turned to see what he was going to do next. He didn’t disappoint them and yanked a 6-inch barrel stainless steel .357 magnum, western-looking revolver out of his vest and slammed it on the counter as Mandy attempted to pass. He spun on the barstool and grabbed a napkin off her tray.
“Can’t stand rain on my gun.”
The pistol with ivory handles dripped moisture on the counter and he immediately emptied the cylinder and wiped the weapon down.
He downed the octagon tumbler of tequila and continued cleaning the revolver, while the Cantina crew stared. “Gimme another shot,” Larry said. “Is Bandit afraid to come out and see his old riding buddy?”
“I doubt that,” Marko said, moving to his high security corner.
“I remember our last ride to Vegas,” Larry continued not paying any attention to the other patrons. “Bandit was between marriages and looking. We rode out for some bike gathering and grabbed a couple of rooms at some swanky casino. He knew someone in the ranks, who took care of our bikes. He also knew someone who worked for Las Vegas H-D and was recently released from federal prison on a racketeering charge. He did five years, but this guy, Fred something, was much more than a common criminal. He spent his entire life working for biker’s rights, and owed Bandit a favor.”
“Gimme another shot,” Larry said. “Put it on Bandit’s tab. So Fred hooked Bandit up with a prostitute. I remember the broad, since I ended up with her.”
Nyla slid another shot of clear Tequila toward St. Marie. He immediately grabbed it and downed it, as if it was full of air. He slammed it on the counter, gulped, and smirked. “Hit me again,” he said. “Where’s the Chinaman? I need a quesadilla and some salsa.”
On cue, the galley door burst open and in came the little Hispanic helper with a tray full of Mexican treats and the Chinaman’s signature salsa.
“The broad was short, sorta stubby, with a bouffant hairdo that was hair-sprayed into place a foot above her head,” St. Marie explained. looking at the stainless steel revolver components spread all over the bar, as if he was taking inventory. “She was chewing gum, like a blender set on high, when we met in the hall and Bandit rolled his big green eyes at me as he pulled her into his room.”
“She said something about being in a hurry,” St. Marie said, “and I knew there’d be trouble as they disappeared.” He looked up from his weapon installation procedure at Nyla, then at Mandy. “Bandit likes to take tender time with a woman.”
“Five minutes later I heard Bandit’s door rattling and I met him in the hallway,” St. Marie said with a wry grin. “He gave her to me and said, ‘She said I can’t mess up her hair. You take her. I’m going to make a call.’ An hour later he rode out to the airport and picked up a girl from the coast. That was the last I saw of him that weekend.”
“It was cheaper and more fun to fly a new chick in from the coast, over dealing with a stupid slut from the desert who had no class. Besides, by the end of the weekend, he was fast friends with the leggy tall blond from the valley. Later, I found out this was their first date.”
The door at the top of the stairs slammed and down came Bandit in full riding gear. “Shut this fuckin’ dump down,” he said. “I’ve got to drag this bastard out of here before he tells anymore stories. Let’s ride.”
“How about my place?” Nyla said closing the cash register.
Marko flipped the exterior light switches off and headed to his living quarters behind the Cantina, where the bikes were stored.
“I’m not done with my story,” St. Marie said reloading the cylindrical pistol chamber, “I hooked up with Bandit’s discarded hooker, and she hooked me. For six months, I rode to Vegas every weekend through desert heat, wind and sand that wiped out my last paint job. She got pregnant. Who the hell knows who the father was but I paid.”
“I spent the next 10 miserable years of my life married to that broad, while Bandit moved from one bubbly blond to the next redhead. This chick ate my freedom and spit kids in my face.”
Larry’s tone turned from fun-loving to nasty. Spinning the chamber and slamming it home in the cleaned hand cannon, he downed his last shot.
“You fuckin’ ruined my life,” St. Marie spat and turned toward the stairway.
Bandit and St. Marie were riding buddies back in the mid ’70s. They tore up North Long Beach, chased broads into Orange County, and lived a pure biker’s existence with a handful of tools, a dank garage, and a pile of soiled t-shirts waiting for a new girlfriend to wash them. They tore up one stucco party-pad after another, until eviction forced them to move on. Since that run to Vegas Bandit hadn’t seen or heard from St. Marie. Life in the ’70s was fast, dangerous and a daily roll of the dice.
St. Marie spun and aimed the big shiny cannon at the stairway as Bandit rounded the corner. Suddenly all movement took on a surreal atmosphere. Nyla dropped her receipt book and snatched her sawed off, double-barreled, coach, external hammer shotgun. Every week, she trained herself at snatching her blued piece out from under the stainless lip of the bar, where Marko fabricated some secure clips. She could snatch it, crouch behind the thick oak bar, cock both hammers back, and take aim in less than three seconds. Clay and Buster hit the deck.
Marko, like a cat wrapped in light translucent human skin, can sense diversion, mood change, and hostility in a still glass of still water. As he headed out the door, light on his feet, and excited to straddle his stretched FXR, he sensed a tonal chance, and noted that the revolver was suddenly flying back together. A weapons expert of the highest order, the clicking noise of precision parts embracing each other was like sheet music to a composer. He could read it like the last line in a suspense novel, all the answers unveiled.
Marko spun around drawing his 9 mm Glock and releasing the safety. A laser site danced in the center of St. Marie’s back.
“You’re burnin’ daylight,” Bandit said to St. Marie, who stood with his boots spread and both hands aiming the .357 at Bandit’s chest less than a half dozen feet away. Bandit kept coming; gradually lifting his hand in mock arrest fashion. “Chance of a lifetime, cocksucker. I don’t like paying taxes anymore anyway.”
The room was suddenly frozen as if all players were waiting for Bandit’s signal. He took another step, as if he was following Marko’s self defense training to a tee.
St. Marie’s jagged Italian teeth gnashed and he squeezed the trigger. The polished hammer cocked back as Bandit took another step closer and he leaned ever so slightly, shoving his torso out of the revolver’s sites. Larry tried to adjust his aim, and that was the split second Bandit needed to drop his left hand under the pistol blocking it to the outside, encircling it and snapping away from St. Marie’s grasp.
As quickly, as he snatched it away, he returned it to the side of Larry’s face, drawing blood and driving him to an adjacent table. Bandit stepped forward and hit Larry once more, driving him to the floor.
“I say we keep his Panhead and throw him in the bay,” Bandit said.
Larry scrambled backwards against the rough deck. “It’s all I have, goddamnit.”
“Then get on it and ride,” Bandit said. “and don’t ever darken this door again.”
Larry scrambled to his feet and made a motion to retrieve his revolver. “No fuckin’ way, pal,” Bandit said. “You know the code, use it, or lose it. I’ll take that funky looking beret, too,” he said and snatched it off Larry’s head. Get the fuck outta here.”
Marko followed Larry to his bike, watched him mount up and ride out of the parking lot, the upsweeps cracking against the harbor air as he sped up and over the Vincent Thomas Bridge.
“Nyla,” Bandit said. “You still up for a party at your place?”
