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?
