Sorta depressed, Marko met with Bandit about the stolen FXR and ran down all the info he had.
“No word?” Bandit asked.
“Nothing this morning,” Marko said. “A guy on this hot rod FXR could be in Arizona by now.”
“Unlikely a drug addict will get that far,” Bandit said. “Let me make a call.”
“We need to find this bike within the first 24 hours or you know the drill,” Marko said and looked at his worn workout shoes.
If they couldn’t get a lead on the bike in a solid day, it would probably have been turned over to professionals who loaded it in a container bound for Japan or dissembled it for parts.
Bandit picked up his phone and called an old riding partner in the desert, Bob T., a notorious outlaw of the first order who was connected to every club from Riverside to Phoenix. He knew the smooth streets of Palm Springs and the rough back roads in 13 Palms, Joshua Tree, and Yucca Valley out to Amboy. He also knew all the whores in Marengo Valley.
If action blinked in the grimy desert sands or under the shade of a cactus tree, Bob T. heard about it.
“Are you still boot-tough and rattlesnake-mean?” Bob asked from inside his tin shed made partially with the skins of a ’59 Cadillac.
“You know it,” Bandit said. “I need a favor. An FXR was stolen from outside the Cantina…”
“I know,” Bob interjected, “and I know the bike.”
“It was stolen, most likely by a drug addict, homeless bastard,” Bandit said. “He’ll need a fix by the time he gets to you.”
“I may know where they get the shit in Palm Springs,” Bob said. “It’s strong in the desert.”
“We’re burning daylight,” Bandit said and hung up.
Over the next few hours, Bob made a handful of calls as the summer sun rose in the east and fried anything that moved except plastic, which softened in 117 degrees and made to form a plastic sculpture against the sandy landscape and blistering asphalt.
Bob’s air conditioning ran all night. No less than 99 degrees at 2:00 in the morning, the day would crest with a brilliant unobstructed sun and peak at 119 degrees. Bob worked as a partially retired contractor except on days this hot. He spent time with his disabled son in their desert abode with the lights out, the shades pulled and the cool air blasting against the heat outside.
***
The homeless idiot rode hard in the night on LA freeways heading nowhere. His life had one meaning, the search for more drugs. He ripped off his folks, his neighbors, his friends and anyone else he could con with his lines of bullshit . He lied, coerced, and contrived stories to no end to collect a few bucks and buy more heroin. But recently, Los Angeles passed an additional tax on working citizens to give homeless thieves phones, shelter and more free mental and health programs as if they were begging to be fixed. They weren’t.
The kid, with no helmet and his matted dreadlocks flying in the hot, dark night, might say to anyone that he wanted to improve his education or get a job, but nothing mattered except the hunt for more drugs. One mission prevailed as he hit the outskirts of LA and peeled on this beautiful hot rod FXR into Riverside County. He didn’t understand the value of the highly modified Harley or what it could do for him. He had no notion of DMV laws or the restrictive helmet mandate in California.
One goal streamed through his mind, to reach Palm Springs and score some dope. For awhile, his concern for fuel became an issue, but when he scrambled through the loot he stole from the other bikes, he came across someone’s wallet and a bundle of cash. Inspired, he filled the tank and his tangled dreadlocks parted to reveal bright sparkling blue eyes hungry for a fix. He had enough money.
Marko went about his Cantina duties preparing for the next crowd, but he didn’t like the increasing number of drug addicts and alcoholics he was forced to deal with in the area. He couldn’t figure it out. Was it the economy, or the quality and availability of the drugs?
Around noon, skinny Clay strolled into the Cantina, ordered some famous Chinaman Salmon Tacos, grilled zucchini and a Corona or two. A borderline alcoholic, Clay spoke of screenplays and depression. His story, always the same, didn’t go anywhere. Either booze lead to depression or visa versa, and stopped all but his beer-buying progress.
He was okay, but shortly after he pulled his long dirty blond hair out of his face to eat his meager food, maybe his only meal of the day, in walked a girl who asked to sit beside him.
Marko had never seen the short shapely Italian broad before. She sported dark, almost black hair with a hint of gray around the roots. She didn’t look too bad, but as he passed her, her pock-marked face indicated she’d probably battled severe acne as a kid.
A conversation kicked off between the two and for the first time in weeks, Clay seemed alert. The 5’2” Shirley bought Clay lunch and more Coronas and had a few herself.
Marko watched the two curiously from across the saloon from his security perch. His red house line rang and refocused his attention. Marko is the most focused guy on the lot. He doesn’t miss a beat.
“Yes sir?” Marko said.
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“I want you and Frankie to get our van ready to roll shortly,” said Bandit. “We have a line on the biggest heroin dealer in Palm Springs. Let’s take a chance.”
“You got it,” Marko said, hung up and headed to the White Ford Transit van in the back with Bandit’s Cantina logo in black on the sides and back. He made sure the ramp was tied down and enough straps in place to load any motorcycle.
The skinny emaciated Clay followed him outside. Clay never leaves the bar, except to leave. Slightly tipsy, he approached Marko.
“What’s happening?” Clay asked.
Marko turned and looked at Clay directly. “What’s happening with you?” he returned.
“I don’t know,” Clay said and scratched his forehead. “Did you see that girl?”
“Yep,” Marko said, “What’s her story and how does it involve you?”
Marko was tough as nails, but he had a semi-soft spot for even the weakest bar rats. Clay didn’t have much going for himself. He lived on a boat that would never see open ocean again. He made just enough money to pay for his slip fees and food.
“She had a car accident and got a $60,000 settlement. She was wondering about buying a boat and living on it.”
“What did she do before the settlement?” Marko asked.
“I guess she went through a divorce and then had the car accident,” Clay replied.
“Be careful,” Marko said. “If she was smart and on the ball, she would save as much of that money as possible, get a job and settle down.”
“Yep,” Clay said.
?“I mean it, Clay,” Marko said, “Don’t sign anything.”
“Okay,” Clay responded, but he hadn’t had a girl involved in his life in a decade. Just talking to her made his heart thump stronger.
Marko and Frankie jumped in the van and peeled across the Vincent Thomas Bridge toward the Long Beach Freeway. They were headed toward the I-10 freeway, which snaked across the country, but bent slightly in Palm Springs.
Marko handed Frankie a stainless steel sawed-off pump shotgun and said, “Load it. It holds eight rounds of OO buckshot.”
By noon under the blazing sun, the homeless kid roamed through old town Palm Springs looking for pawnshops, dingy bars and a connection. He knew how dangerous it was to step into any foreign neighborhood. He bought a $15 helmet to keep the man off his back, but already the pawnbrokers knew they were talking to a bike thief. Somebody dropped a dime on him to the local outlaw club chapter.
Marko and Frankie rolled off the freeway and Marko’s cell phone rang.
“We’ve got another issue,” Bandit said. “The local club guys know about our guy. If they reach him first, they’ll take the bike and beat him flat in the desert.”
“I don’t care about him, but we’ll lose our shot at the FXR,” Bandit continued. “Bob is going to call the club guys.”
The homeless kid parked the bike outside a scanky bar on the edge of town. He was beginning to sweat, but not from the heat. No vehicles were parked out front and a couple of dusty junkers rotted in the sun out back. Didn’t look like anyone moved them in months. He parked the FXR so he could see it from the door as he stepped out of the blazing sun into the dark bar.
It took his sun-drenched eyes almost 30 seconds to adjust to the extreme lighting change. All he could make out was the glow over the pool table. There were a couple of figures hunched over the bar. As his eyes focused, he could make out one scrawny bastard puffing on a cigarette nervously and sipping a beer. His ashtray was filled with cigarette butts.
The bartender, a fat homely broad with the stern look of a mom who just spotted her underage kids drinking at the dank corner bar, glared at dreadlocks and said, “What can I get you?”
“A Corona, thanks,” he said and sat next to the smoking meth chimney.
“Can I bother you for a smoke?” he asked the tweaker nervously.
“The machine is over in the corner,” the skinny white boy said and motioned to the corner without acknowledging the kid. “What are you looking for?”
“I need a fix,” the thief said. “Can you hook me up?”
The skinny kid looked up at him slightly. “You’re not from around here.”
“No,” Dreadhead said.
Just then two cars pulled into the parking lot behind the bar and eight young Hispanic thugs marched inside. Dread man didn’t dare move to the cigarette vending machine in the corner.
“Show me your bike,” the white boy said. “Now.” He handed him a cigarette and a lighter.
As the Hispanic boys filled the bar and tried to adjust to the darkness, the two white kids slipped out the front door.
“These guys might kick your ass and take your sweet ride,” white boy said. “This is a meth bar.” He tore the cover off a matchbook and wrote a number on it. “Call this number, but get moving. Because of the gang, this place crawls with cops.”
Dread head straddled the flashy, high-tech motorcycle and fired it to life as two of the gang members stepped out the tattered front door with a small porthole bolted in the upper center. They didn’t like the glare or the heat and stepped back inside. But they made a call to their brothers in the neighborhood after talking to White boy. The bike was obviously high dollar and not his. They could get it for another cheap fix, maybe his last.
Dread head made the call immediately and a sweet girl answered the phone. She was active and alert, not like most of the deadbeats and drug addicts he encountered. His life was over unless he could do something about this habit. Stealing the motorcycle may have been his last and lowest drug-induced act. He itched for a fix.
Up until recently, he could work cleaning dishes at a couple of restaurants and make enough money for a fix and basics. He lost his apartment after selling his car and everything he had to keep the drugs flowing. Then recently, he lost his job for stealing and roamed the streets, grabbing shit and doing anything he could for his next fix.
More and more addicts and alcoholics slipped into the desert. They weren’t worth the powder to blow them to hell, but this FXR was worth a bundle to several groups and they were beginning to focus.
The sweet voice on the other end of the line gave him directions and he rolled in her described path to the upscale side of town on S. Indian Canyon Drive passed Tahquitz Canyon and the landscape changed dramatically. Suddenly surrounded by luxury cars, hot women, some in bikinis with sarongs strolled down the street. At one time, hot women were his thing but orgasms dipped in their importance as heroin rushes made women second fiddle or even third.
All he could think about was the fix, the rush and the life-leaving high. His planning hadn’t even stepped beyond the fix to any future efforts. He didn’t care about anything but another needle in his arm. He knew he was sinking fast, but it didn’t matter. He needed a heroin rush more than life itself.
***
Frankie and Marko rolled off the freeway in Palm Springs and pulled over to collect phone data from the Cantina nerve center. The afternoon sun scorched the earth and Marko kept the AC running on high.
Dread locks pulled into a posh and classic Melvyn’s Restaurant parking lot and parked beside an idling, candy-apple red Corvette with chromed billet wheels. The passenger side window rolled down slightly.
“Get in,” the sweet voice called to him.
He slipped into the cool tan leather seats and looked at the voice for the first time. Stunning, the blonde with big bubbling tits, a ton of glittering jewelry and very little clothes reeked of bling and sensuous joy.
“Here,” she said in a voice from heaven, “you need this right away. There’s more tonight.”
The dread gleefully opened the tin foil pack. He smelled of soiled clothes and sweat, but he didn’t care. He had the shit in the palm of his hand and she handed him a kit in an engraved silver case the size of two packs of cigarettes.
“How much?” Dread asked, fumbling in his backpack for his roll of stolen cash.
“Don’t sweat it,” She smiled and her teeth, as white as sweet Hagan Daze vanilla ice cream, glinted in the sunlight. “Take your time. I’ll roll out of here and show you around.”
“What about my bike?” he asked in just a slight moment of hesitation. He didn’t care, but it was his ticket.
“No problem,” She smiled and placed her delicate hand, laden with diamond encrusted gold rings and delicately hand painted nails softly on his upper thigh. “I know the valet guys. They will keep an eye on it.”
As he opened the tin foil wrapper, it seemed to be a sizeable amount of white powder, but he didn’t hesitate to boil it with the fancy lighter. He inhaled deeply the mist off the tin foil and could immediately feel the impact on his lungs. Heaven approached.
She fired up the Corvette and it rumbled with the note of custom performance exhaust. She pulled out and the sports car purred with cat-like performance. She pulled out onto Belardo Road and a left on West Ramon. The late model modified Corvette thundered and spit power, and before they hit interstate 10, he had shot up and was beginning to float on a magnificent high. The car smelled of exotic perfume and he began to drift. She hit the freeway for just a couple of miles and peeled off the interstate in Indio, through Coachella, Thermal and Mecca, nearing the Salten Sea. These destitute areas were notorious for outlaw gun battles, shallow graves and drug deals gone wrong.
Her glistening 50 coats of hand rubbed deep candy and chrome looked seriously out of place between the desert and the dank rotten smell emanating off the salten sea. He was long gone, passed out as the sun set and she pulled off the highway onto a desolate road leading toward the Santa Rosa hills, but just out of sight of the highway, she pulled up behind an abandoned block building, slammed into park, jumped out of the car and rounded it to the passenger side.
She was as delicious standing as her face dazzled any onlooker. Tall, statuesque, tanned, with a shear dress cut up the sides, a super-narrow waist and trimmed arms. She obviously worked out. She yanked open the door took dread’s arm and pulled him out of the car and onto the hot sand. He hit the soft sizzling earth with a thump. She closed the door and opened her trunk to retrieve an Ace Hotel bath towel. She folded it neatly and slipped it under his head.
Returning to her car, she grabbed her purse, retrieved a leather wipe and cleaned the passenger seat briefly, and then sprayed the interior with perfume. She sat carefully in the driver seat and wiped off her stiletto pumps as she moved her delicious legs into her driving position, pulled a sandy burnout and hit the road.
Back at the restaurant in pulled four gang members in a tarnished 10-year-old ex-cop Crown Vic. They rolled to the rear of the parking area, where the valet guys wouldn’t see them. They rolled all their windows down and waited. They weren’t comfortable, but the air conditioning didn’t work. They had no choice.
Shortly thereafter, a flashy black pickup entered the parking area and scoped it out. The club members moved to the other end of the parking lot. They saw the gang-bangers to their left, in the back, but didn’t suspect them. They just needed a quiet moment after the sun set to roll the bike to a safe spot to load it. Then an all-black flashy van with billet wheels and initials gold leafed on the doors rolled into the lot and right up to the valet stand.
The driver, a young buffed guy in a sleeveless t-shirt, knew one of the valet guys and slipped him something. The valet nodded and turned away. The driver maneuvered the van around and backed it toward the FXR’s parking stall.
The van faced the pickup, 15 yards dead ahead, as the two 1%ers stepped deliberately out of the cab and reached under their vests. Simultaneously, the four toughs from a local street gang peeled out of their cruiser armed to the teeth with assault weapons. It wasn’t looking good for anyone in the parking lot.
The sun set quietly in the west and the blistering air softened slightly from 115 degrees to 99. The heat hit all the street soldiers, as if they all donned heavy heated leather riding gear. Suddenly they felt heavy, hot and subdued. The two thugs in the van rolled up their window and checked their weapons. Both had polished stainless steel 9 mm semi-autos with ivory handles. They were gifts from their drug-dealing boss.
Time slipped as the two outlaws reached inside their vests for their pistols. Long-haired badasses who encountered violence most of their adult lives, they were 1%ers of the highest order. They controlled much of the Coachella Valley, but even these nasty bastards couldn’t stand in 99 degrees for long and they felt the pressure.
The four street gang members were young and contained a variety of the young gang elements. One was still in school and planned to stay there. He didn’t mind hanging in the hood but killing someone over a motorcycle and spending the rest of his life in jail wasn’t a card he wanted in his deck. Another kid started sweating profusely. He was just about to panic and run. Short and skinny, he was more a user than a gangster. But the other two were tough stout leaders. One wanted a name for himself. Enrique would shoot anyone just to say he did.
The other, a narrow-eyed Hispanic with slick long hair and a slithering mustache, was nasty but sharp. He liked to stab a stoner behind a bar for his wallet. It didn’t bother him, but he knew the odds and was cunning. He had leadership motives.
The two guys in the van were upscale white bullies who trained, did steroids, were buffed and liked to push Ivy League guys around in a posh bar, but a gun battle in a parking lot didn’t fit their job description, although they carried proudly.
As sweat dripped into the eyes of the outlaw, Ranger, the passenger of the two club guys reached for his bandana. Tall and lanky he wasn’t to be messed with. He scanned the scene. Suddenly the street gang members were also involved. He took a step back to use their pickup for a barrier from the street gang members who were coming from the left at 45 degrees some 50 feet away– in case shit went down, and each second, it seemed more and more inevitable.
Enrique witnessed the outlaw moving and hoisted his AR-15 from under his sweatshirt. The chicken-shit heard the safety click off and bolted. Shit started happening fast. The FXR was still in the parking space directly behind the van. The van drivers looked at each other. One turned white as a ghost. The shit would hit the fan if they didn’t return with the bike, but his brain moved fast enough to offer another option, another battle, another day.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he blurted. “We know where these guys live.”
The driver threw the van in reverse and edged backwards, but Enrique only saw the glory of a shootout behind the famous Melvyn’s, teaching the 1%ers a street lesson and maybe taking more drug control of the area. He raised the assault weapon and took aim at the van.
The old biker, Ranger, wasn’t a dummy. Both outlaws weighed their odds and drew long-barreled pistols, like something from the old west. One nodded to the other and the driver stepped back and into the cab, while his partner fired one round and jumped into the pickup cab.
Just then the FXR fired to life, the loud exhaust disguised the shot fired. Marko, wearing a sport coat over a dress shirt walked through the restaurant from the front to the back and into the parking lot. Just as the van passed, he straddled the slick looking FXR and fired it to life.
The van stopped. Everything stopped, except for the parking lot screams. The outlaws headed directly in the path of the FXR. Pinned between the van and the pickup, Marko dropped it in gear and popped onto the sidewalk past the valet stand and into the restaurant.
Marko entered the restaurant and slid into a glass display table against the slick marble floors. He centered the hot rod FXR and peeled toward the entrance, nearly knocking over a uniformed waiter carrying a large platter of food. Frankie stood at the entrance with the door wide open and the shotgun under his jacket.
Marko flew past him and into the street. He leaned hard right for less than a block and left on Ramon East, right in a block and a half on Calle Ajo for a block and left again, then right down a back street. He had less than two minutes to reach the Cantina van and load the FXR. It was set, hidden behind a Ryder truck yard with the rear doors open and the wide arched aluminum ramp in place. He ducked and rode the hot FXR into the van, jumped off. He threw the light tubular ramp in the back of the van, slammed the doors shut and jumped into the driver’s seat. As poised as a man could be, his heart pounded like a jackhammer in his chest.
The bikers and van crew were stunned, but then the van peeled backward, and sirens could be heard in the distance. The driver tried to maneuver in the parking lot quickly, but when he backed up to reverse direction, the pickup blasted past them reaching the street in front of the restaurant first.
Cops flew into the upscale area from all directions. The two outlaws were able to escape the parking lot and into the street, but they didn’t see where Marko turned off S. Belardo Road. They suspected he’d headed east on Ramon Road and they peeled right.
Before the slick van could depart the restaurant parking lot, the street was awash with Palm Springs Police cars. One street gang member lay wounded on the hot asphalt but only from shrapnel from his hollow-point hit rifle, which splintered the rifle stock, cut his face and knocked him to the ground. The other gang members abandoned him and bolted in all directions on foot.
Marko rounded the corner to his designated spot to pick up Frankie, who clamored into the van breathing heavy, his eyes as wide as saucers. “Did we make it?”
“Not yet,” Marko said. “Climb in the back and tie down the bike. When I can smell the Chinaman’s nachos, we’ll be in the clear.”
