It was late afternoon in the Cantina. A quartet of flies circled above some dirty lunch dishes on one of the tables. The slow tempo affected the few customers and the staff behind the bar. Slick Steve glared at the few customers that remained, hoping to hasten their departure by some street level ESP he imagined he had. Tina was inert, slouched against the cooler doors behind her. Marko had been absently wiping the same spot on the bar as he watched two Asian guys at a table in the middle of the room.
There was nothing unusual about the two men. Their manner was casual, but to Marko it seemed a little too casual. He was tense and alert to anything that might hint at a resurgence of the shooting of the last few days. Marko was the only one in the Cantina who had a clue about the potential violence the impending clash of drug warlords could spark. Slick Steve was oblivious to the tension Marko felt. For all his involvement in the drug trade at the street level, he was na?ve about the big picture. He never questioned who brought the drugs into the area, how the price was determined and who controlled the distribution. For Steve, selling drugs was the only way people would relate to him, and he controlled the people to whom he supplied drugs, like Tina.
He got his dope from a guy named Cousin Gomez in the harbor town of Wilmington, just north of the Cantina. He never asked where Cousin Gomez got his supply. As far as Steve was concerned, Cousin Gomez was just a foul smelling, old fart that had a used hubcap shop as a front and a flea-bitten, gray-muzzled old dog that smelled as bad as the old man. Steve never stuck around to make small talk with him.
Had he done so, he might have found out a lot about the drug trade in the harbor area. The old man had been around a long time, which in itself is remarkable in a business that values the young, violent and desperate. Cousin Gomez was a major figure in the process of moving drugs and laundering money, an important cog in the mechanism of harbor contraband. The volume of cargo that moved in and out of the L.A/Long Beach Harbor made any effort to control the movement of contraband nearly impossible. Drug busts were made but they never stanched the flow. The drug business was street level and big-time; it involved the dregs of the street and the highest levels of political power.
Steve was street-level slime. He was one of the bottom-feeders of society. He would supply Tina with drugs until she ran out of money or became a burnt-out, crank hag. At the moment, Tina was trying to get away from the groping hands of one of the Asian guys. Steve moved to help her just as a young Hispanic guy blocked his path. Marko watched the barroom drama play out before he made his move.
The Hispanic guy was mumbling something about “getting well” and something about “?a guy told me you had the drugs.” The two of them were close enough to the bar where Marko stood for him to sense there was something wrong with the Hispanic guy’s demeanor. Red flags were waving in Marko’s street-smart brain. The Hispanic guy was wearing the appropriate street-hype clothing, but he had on highly polished black dress shoes. Marko didn’t wait to analyze the situation further.
He quickly moved around the bar, walked between the two men and as he passed, he hooked Steve’s arm, dragging him along as Marko moved toward Tina. Halfway to Tina, Marko turned to Steve’s dumb, questioning face and hissed one word between his clenched teeth, “Narc!” Steve stumbled a bit when he heard Marko, but kept moving toward the Asians and Tina. By the time they got to the table, the two Asian guys had risen, turned and were walking toward the door.
“Are you OK?” Marko asked Tina, keeping his eyes on the retreating men.
“Yeah, it ain’t nothing,” Tina said, counting the large tip the two men had left. “He just wanted to know when I get off work.”
Steve watched nervously as the two Asians left the Cantina. Marko turned to see where the Hispanic guy was, but he’d vanished. Marko tensed. “That guy’s socks were too clean to be a speed freak,” Marko mused to himself.
“Steve, man the bar. Tina, clean up that table, the next shift will be here shortly. I’m going to check what’s going on outside.” Marko turned on his heel, military fashion, and headed for the exit in the kitchen.
