Marko blasted back to the Cantina. Nothing bothered him more than a brother getting his bike stolen. This brother, Bart, was a big stout machinist union member who had fallen on hard times. He was once well off, but a nasty divorce and the 2008 collapse left his engineering business in shambles, so he returned to the grubby coast.
Everything slipped downhill for Bart except his creative spirit and knowledge. Everything he did was top notch, from his Softail to his Corvette and the boat he ended up living on in the Port of Los Angeles. His big brown eyes were full of deep concern when he explained his problem to Marko.
“I recently had rototator cuff surgery and I’m living off disability,” Bart said, and showed Marko a shot of his glistening, custom-painted Softail. “It was locked but not chained.”
His story went on and on. He didn’t park it in the motorcycle only parking area and Margaret only found sparse video footage of that area of the Cantina parking lot. Marko listened intently for clues while big Bart rolled on about his racecars in storage, his machine tools in the back of a Bakersfield, California, machine shop, and his furniture in a garage behind a house in Fresno. He had shit stashed in unsecured or partially secured locations throughout the Central Valley.
Bandit received a call from the Redhead of Redheads at the Pacific Marina.
“There’s been a flurry of thefts in this area,” she said. “It’s mostly trucks or trailers full of belongings and tools, probably meth head thieves.”
Marko sat skin-and-bones Frankie down at lunch and grilled him about the speed business in the region.
“I heard about a meth lab on a boat,” Frankie said. “Someone will smell it, or the damn thing will explode.”
“Okay Frankie, we need specifics,” Marko said. “We need to get Bart’s bike back.”
“There could be a problem in Fish Harbor,” Frankie said. “That’s all I know.”
Marko scratched his dark goatee and thought for a moment. Fish Harbor contained a fleet of haphazard, run-down commercial fishing boats, but the commercial fishing business at this end of the harbor was nearly dry. It was sad to see so many industries fade in one of the richest harbors in the world. What made the infrastructure of the LA harbor go to shit, when next door in Long Beach, it glistened?
Marko scratched some more and started to wonder how he could reach into the belly of the dark side of the harbor and touch someone, hard. He made a call to a connection in Wilmington. The Cantina filled up rapidly with the happy hour crowd. There was almost no discussion of the stolen motorcycle, which could be bad for business.
Bart was a hard-working, nearly destitute local rider. He didn’t hang with any clubs or groups and in his mid-50s, he didn’t chase soft trouble like he did before. It cost him too much and he currently lived on the wrong side of the tracks and on the wrong side of the financial balance line.
Marko began to scour his list of dark-side connections. A warm Friday night loomed and the younger crowd filtered into the Cantina for the music and the Chinaman’s fare. He built a name throughout the southland. Even some of the Melrose crowd on the edge of Hollywood made the trek to the harbor for the Cantina chow and cool air off the channel.
Traffic daunted the city and for a handful of riders to feel the cool sea air and open lanes of the port was a delight. A half-dozen riders could fly through the harbor on the edge of the city away from jammed freeways and bumper-to-bumper boulevards.
One young hotshot builder from Melrose challenged his crew of FXR riders to beat feet for the coast. Each highly modified, performance scooter adorned with its Sons of Anarchy fairing burned out from the curb and split lanes through early evening traffic weaving like well-oiled snakes toward the freeway and more slithering maneuvers toward the coast and cooler climes.
The group screamed into Bandit’s Cantina parking lot at breakneck speeds, performing Unknown Rider wheelstands and burnouts in front of the Cantina on the hot asphalt before slamming into the motorcycle parking area and shutting off their stroked motors.
The leader jumped off his flashy FXR and hollered, “What a ride!” The brothers were all elated, shouting and joking as if they just reached the crest of a mountain successfully. “Drinks all around,” Niko shouted as they stormed for the thick Cantina oak door with its massive brass porthole.
Actually, the 20-mile run from Melrose in downtown to the port along the 110 freeway was a no-man’s land of distracted drivers, old freeway infrastructure, narrow lanes, road rage, dislike for loud pipes, and screaming kids. Any rider who dared take on this jagged iron path on a Friday night was asking for concrete annihilation. Anything less was pure rolling the chromed dice or French-kissing the devil on the edge of the deep blue sea.
Niko knew no fear as Margaret poured him a magnificent Gold Cadillac Margarita and he poured an extra shot of Cuervo Gold over the top. The party was one, the brothers primed for action and fortunately the Long Beach girls were willing.
By 10:00, the brothers were fed and ready to cut another dusty trail back into the city. Over-crowded Los Angeles teamed with high-density traffic day and night. A brother could slip out of a girl’s apartment at just past midnight and the traffic could be as strained as it was at 5:00, or not. Another roll of the chromed dice.
The brothers faced another party to attend in the city and they were ready to strike out across the vast pavement. The Chinaman’s scrumptious dinner of El Pollo Verde hit the spot. Full, calm and slightly high, the cool evening air would make their engines happy, vibrant and ready for hard-throttle action.
They bounced out the massive oak door with helmets and leathers ready to rock. “What the fuck?” Niko said. His FXR gone, he looked around as if he might whistle and it would return.
Marko blasted out the door to Niko’s side. “Tell me about it,” Marko said.
“It was right here,” Niko said. He was a short wirey kid with bright eyes and a thick mass of blonde coffer hair. He built bikes and recently converted from bobbers and café Triumphs to FXRs. He was a convert to the world of hot rod rubber-mount Harleys.
“Was it locked?” Marko asked.
“I’ll bet he left the keys in it,” a young partner said. With dreadlocks, his hair stuck out in every direction under his modified, pinstriped helmet.
Marko looked at Niko sternly as the young cocky rider reached into his grubby denim pockets and dug around. He shrugged as he looked up a Marko.
“Come on,” Marko said. “Let’s look at the camera footage.” The whole young gang of riders scrambled behind Marko to the kitchen door and down a hall to the security office.
Marko’s guts turned as he rewound the tape, and then started to play it forward in black and white. The clear lens captured a perfect shot of the entire motorcycle-only parking area and Niko’s bike rested center stage.
Although they could detect shadows and action from the Cantina windows, no action took place directly in the parking area. The bikes didn’t move for several minutes and Marko fast-forwarded the tape until he saw a figure enter the area on the screen.
A longhaired homeless nut carrying a backpack, obviously drunk, stumbled between the bikes and soon it was obvious he was a thief. He picked at anything he could take, from a spare sweatshirt to a pair of shades or night riding glasses. Like a crow, he moved from bike to bike snatching and looking over his shoulder to watch his back.
He looked like any number of homeless creeps roaming the streets of Los Angeles. Of course, the people of LA just passed a measure to give these folks millions in housing, training, treatments, clothing, food, you name it. On the other hand, if one of Niko’s hardworking partners was pulled over, he would be fined and jailed and his life ruined over a Margarita. Nothing made any sense.
The young hippy drunk stumbled and took whatever he could get his hands on, and paused. For a quick couple of seconds, his focus cleared and it was directed at Niko’s hot looking hot-rod FXR, decked out with chrome, fairing, bags and custom paint. This guy didn’t know the extent of performance components housed in and around Niko’s modified Big Bear Choppers frame, the Race Tech aluminum swingarm or the Paoli front end.
He had no notion of the configuration of the 103-inch S&S Twin Cam engine stuffed into this puppy or the hot rod Baker Transmission. He just saw the bling, the gold leaf in the dazzling graphic paint and the keys in the ignition. His face lit up like a line of pure coke rocking his senses.
The focus of his attention shifted in two directions. He looked around for trouble and folks who might discover his glee. Then his attention turned to studying his escape route. He threw his grimy backpack over his shoulder and straddled the hot rod.
Suddenly he appeared sober. He focused on backing the bike up quickly through a lucky lane of openness out of the motorcycle-only parking area into the open. He could see the clear exit less than a 1/8th mile away. He turned the key, looked at the hand controls and easily fired the monster to life. At the moment it lit, he grabbed the clutch, hit the shifter with his left foot covered only in a tattered running shoe.
In a flash he was gone out of camera view. Marko, Niko, his brothers and Margaret were stunned. Like watching an episode of a crime drama, they expected more, even a commercial break. Would the program return to deft investigators on the case?
Marko always had an air of confidence, as if he could make a call and somehow Bandit would ride back into the lot on Niko’s FXR in five, maybe 15 minutes. Margaret looked at his pissed off demeanor and decided not to say anything. She was beyond beautiful, like a dozen fiery roses set in the center of a fistfight.
“What the hell are we going to do?” Niko stammered.
“You’re going to pack home with a brother or call Uber,” Marko said. “And you will never leave your keys in your bike again.”
He turned to Margaret whose facial features hit him like a Buddhist chant. “That’s two,” Marko said. “Not a good Friday.”
Marko returned to the Cantina Bar, while the brothers from Melrose made plans. Shortly their bikes roared to life and blasted out of the parking area, Niko on the back of one of the them. Marko assured him they would be in touch.
Marko sat on his security perch and watched the Friday night mayhem, the Latin jazz band, and the girls. He monitored the activities, as they became more buzzed and sexual temperatures changed. Some couples grabbed at each other and meandered off into the night. Marko’s attention rambled to Bart and Niko, then back to Bart. His cell phone vibrated in his pocket.
Although Margaret made him laugh and smile, inside he hurt. Stolen motorcycles were somewhat of a crime thermometer. If bikes turned up missing, it could mean hard times, new drugs or gangs. He was hoping for alternate motives, but he didn’t know.
His cell phone rattled in this pocket. It was Bandit. “You were right, Fish Harbor. “Monitoring police frequencies,” he said. “High speed chase in Redondo with a Harley.”
“I’m on it,” Marko said, reported his departure to Margaret and ran to the Bandit’s Cantina Ford Transit Van. It had a motorcycle chock built in and an arched aluminum ramp always at the ready.
He plugged in his phone, made a call and blasted out of the parking lot. Redondo Beach was way more upscale than Pedro and slightly north toward Marina Del Rey. As he rolled, he spoke to his contact at the Harbor Police.
As cute as a button, this Hispanic officer made a point of visiting the Cantina weekly. Her long black hair carefully twisted into a laced ponytail, she related to Marko as a professional, sort of like she related to the knowledgeable guys on the force. She was no monkey business, with dark direct eyes and semi-muscular features. She worked out her body as much as she worked out her mind.
“They spotted him speeding on 190th street,” Elisa said. “He was packing a girl but went down trying to round a corner. They have him on DUI charges, reckless driving, evading, drugs and the theft.”
Marko arrived on the scene in 20 minutes. An ambulance hauled away the perpetrator and his girl. Elisa spoke to the Redondo cop and when Marko proved he was there to return the road rash Softail to the owner, they took photos and released the slightly mangled Harley to Marko.
Bart’s bike was previously a sharp semi-customized Softail with Performance Machine billet wheels, brakes and hand controls. The stock sheet metal was custom painted, the seat stitched by Le Pera and he installed thick show-chromed beach bars and billet mirrors. Clean as a whistle the bike glistened in the sun with its deep metallic ocean blue base paint and soft flames.
The bike Marko stared at was transformed into a piece of scrambled garbage with rattlecan paint over the custom touches. He cut off the Thunder Header just before the 2-inch pipe junction for a couple of maddening- loud drag pipes.
Bart installed a custom air ride system and the thief had lowered it to the lowest point. He should have known Softails have a cornering problem with their wide triangulated frame, and lowering it prevents any cornering abilities. High speed cornering with a passenger was next to impossible and this guy didn’t know what the hell he was doing and jeopardized the life of his passenger in the process.
Even the hopped-up engine should have been a clue. Bart installed only the best accessories and stroked internals for a 96-inch highway flyer.
Although the dinged sheet metal lost its custom glow, the mangled spot lights didn’t shine and the brutally twisted ignition switch couldn’t be locked, the bike wasn’t all that bad. Marko loaded it in the back of the Cantina van, collected as much info as possible about the parties involved, thanked the officers and notified Bart. He was bringing his baby back.
Nothing made Marko and Bandit happier than to fix a problem like this. Bart had issues, but the Cantina crew could help him get the bike started and on the road again.
The smiling redhead called from the marina, “We have the thief’s Facebook page.”
“What the hell?” Marko said.
“He’s one of the group from old fish harbor,” the bubbly redhead said, “and yesterday he made an announcement. He was off parole for the first time in ten years.”
“Guess the guy needed to celebrate,” Marko added. Marko called the Cantina and informed the constantly moving Margaret.
“But what about the other FXR?” Margaret added.
“That was a buzz-kill,” Marko said and hung up.
