Cantina Episode 88
Marko and Bandit met in his apartment as nightfall fell over the Port of Los Angeles. Bandit made a point not to lose his cool under any number of challenges or hardships, but this Chinese broad was beginning to get to him.
Marko sat down in an old barber chair across from Bandit. He lifted a dumbbell off the wooden deck and did a few curls, while Bandit broke out a 10-year-old bottle of $500, Black Arts Scotch from an island off the coast of Scotland.
He set two small stemmed drinking glasses and a canister of distilled water, on the thick wooden framed coffee table, with a glass top, which contained Bandit’s knife collection.
As he poured the Scotch, Marko said, “I thought Scotch tasted like old shoe polish.”
“Not this Scotch,” Bandit said, and his cell phone started to ring.
“Baby,” Sin Wu said. “What’s with this broad? You’ve had issues with women, but never like this.”
“I don’t even know her,” Bandit said then blinked. Something streaked across his memory stream. “I’m going to handle it or die trying. No one is going to hurt you.”
“Quick,” Sin said. “This could get ugly.” She hung up.
Bandit looked at Marko. Marko was all warrior. He trained constantly. He thought only of weapons and motorcycles, security and strength. He was a machine, but they had been friends for 20 years. “What’s up,” he said.
“I was in China as a young man,” Bandit said and inhaled the Scotch in taster’s fashion. To some Scotch drinkers the smell is almost more important, and they snort the fragrance, like a cocaine user inhales the glistening white crystals. It was a deep woodsy aroma from oak barrels combined with some sweet and spice. “I was taken in by a Chinese family and given a young virgin daughter.”
“You bastard,” Marko said. “She’s your pissed-off teenage daughter and an outlaw just like you.”
“Who the fuck knows,” Bandit said and slugged down the Scotch neat, neglecting to add water. He needed the scotch to hit hard. “Let’s ride to Chinatown.”
They yanked their choppers out of the cantina garage and fired them to life. A rush of exhilaration hit them during their first mile up Harbor Blvd. and over the swaying suspension Vincent Thomas bridge. It always made Bandit feel alive as they shot across Terminal Island, home to 50 percent of the containers in the world and the federal prison.
As they neared the new bridge to Long Beach they cut onto the 7 Freeway out of long Beach heading due east into the industrial side of the coastal city toward downtown LA and Chinatown. The city of Los Angeles is a small footprint in the massive county, while surrounded by a multitude of suburban towns including Wilmington and San Pedro.
But the city contained the cultural hub with Little Tokyo, Chinatown, Olvera street, the arts district, you name it, jammed into the surrounding area around City Hall. Marko and Bandit weaved through traffic like rattle snakes through weeds. Shooting into the downtown region, then off the 5 freeway to the 101 and off on Alameda street. If they turned left on Alameda (known as the Alameda Corridor) they could ride straight back to Wilmington, through every town and ghetto.
Alameda dropped their choppers, one with a long chrome glide and one with a chrome narrow springer flexing against the harsh pavement right in front of Olvera street, a colorful community devoted to the Hispanic heritage of Los Angeles, which was recently surrounded by homeless encampments.
Law abiding citizens and taxpayers no longer matter in Los Angeles, but the homeless drug addicted neighbors do. Bandit leaned off Alameda onto Alpine. The traffic jammed the streets as they slithered to Broadway and slid right up to the famous Yang Chow Chinese Restaurant, famous for their delicious slippery shrimp concoction.
Bandit and Marko strolled inside and immediately the owner spotted them and lead them into the steamy kitchen.
“This gives me great pleasure,” the sharp dressed young owner’s son bowed slightly and shook Bandit’s hand vigorously.
“I’m not here for your magnificent slippery shrimp,” Bandit said. “Unfortunately, I have a problem and you might be able to help.”
“Anything for the big man from the Harbor,” Mr. Chan Jr. said. Short and stocky, he had Angelo round features with softly slanted eyes and black hair cut in a spikey modern hairdo. His face smiled constantly, but he tried to look serious.
“There’s a new female Chinese gangster in town and I need to know all you can find out,” Bandit said sternly.
Mr. Chan grimaced and said, “Wim Tat Nam? I have heard of her. I can find out more.”
“Be careful,” Bandit said. “She’s trouble, but I need anything you can find.”
“Would you like lunch or a cup of tea?” Mr. Chan said. “I have heard much grumbling on the streets. She seems to be taking over everything and not in a nice way. Even the Hispanic clubs are shaking.”
“I need to know where her headquarters are,” Bandit said. “Where the money and the muscle are coming from?”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Mr. Chan said and lead them back into the dining room.
Behind them a small Chinese deep sink man in an all-white smock, stopped doing dishes and reached in his pocked for his cell phone and made his way to the back of the kitchen and out to the alley behind the restaurant to make a call.
Outside, Bandit and Marko straddled their choppers. The crowded sidewalks bustled with movement, but both Bandit and Marko noticed young thugs lingering against light poles and in shop doorways. They fired their bikes and rolled south on Broadway toward Little Tokyo.
Marko kept a sharp eye on following traffic and didn’t like what he saw. At the next light they stopped and Marko said over the idling engines, “We’re being followed.”
“I suspected as much,” Bandit said. “Let’s keep riding.” He wanted to stop and visit his connections in Little Tokyo, two hot little shop keepers, but thought better of it. “We need to go underground.”
They peeled along 2nd Street through Little Tokyo scattered with shops and restaurants, then cut right at the Los Angeles brewery and south to 4th, where they could catch the freeway out of town quick. They lost whoever tailed them and dipped quickly back to the Long Beach freeway like wizards on wheels slicing through traffic. No four-wheeler could come close.
Bandit could feel his cell phone vibrating in his vest as they split lanes and dodged trucks into the port region. He cut off the freeway and blasted down Sante Fe into west Long Beach. He cut right quickly into a crowded poolhall parking lot just north of Anaheim Street. The parking lot was packed with bikes, 98 percent black Harleys. Their bikes stuck out like sore thumbs.
Inside the bar and poolhall was packed with black riders and again they stuck out. Bandit made his way to the very back of the bar where a large black woman approached. “This might not be the time for racial intervention,” she said.
“We will be here only a couple of minutes,” Bandit said and hugged the woman.
“How’s the Cantina?” She said. “Don’t tell me you’re having women issues again?”
Bandit looked at Marko and pulled his cell phone out of his brown leather vest and looked up at Wanda Brown, the owner with warm dark eyes. They sparkled even in a gloomy saloon. “You just asked a mountain of questions,” Bandit said. “Let me check my phone, and I’ll have some answers.”
“Sure baby,” Wanda said and patted his hand. “It’s Church today, so it’s members only.”
“Gimme two minutes,” Bandit said, and we’ll move outside. He tapped his phone and listened to messages.
“Someone fire-bombed my restaurant ten minutes after you left,” Mr. Chan said. “I’ll be in touch.”
Marko and Bandit made their way through the gathering of brothers to the parking lot. They couldn’t miss their choppers in the sea of black baggers, fired up their bikes and peeled out.
Mr. Chan stood in front of his damaged restaurant as firemen and emergency workers scrambled around the area with their gear, hoses and respirators. EMTs emerged from the broken glass with a gurney and one of his longtime staff covered completely. An officer from the coroner’s office followed the gurney through the smoking rubble.
Someone tapped Mr. Chan on the shoulder. It was a very short fireman in as dark stain covered fire protective suit, helmet and face shield. “You will never call him again,” the small voice said through the mask.
Startled, Chan turned to face the fireman with the slight stature and female voice. “What the fuck?” Chan barked. A couple of other firemen heard the exchange and turned. They immediately recognized their uniform, but not the team member. They had never seen a fireperson that small, except one of the kids who occasionally came on field trips from the local schools.
The two sizeable firemen turned to approach.
The diminutive fire person spun so she faced the approaching firemen, tossed off one of her protective fire-retardant gloves reached under her suit and pulled a shiny, stainless steel, 9mm semi-automatic pistol and pointed at the men. They stopped.
She turned slightly toward Chan and lifted her fire shield. “The next bomb will wipe out your family. This is my town now,” she said and handed Chan a small card with his home address on it in Chinese lettering.
Startled, Chan looked on as she bolted for the street corner, tossing off her helmet and gear as she went. At the corner a shiny black sedan idled. A young Chinese man, automatic weapon hanging over his shoulder, held one of the rear doors open.
By the time she reached the corner she had peeled out of the fire suit and wore a form fitting silk embroidered, all white Chinese pant suit and black satin slippers. Wim spun and faced the gawking crowd, lifted the large semi-automatic weapon and fired a shot toward the sky.
I diminutive thing of beauty, she stepped gracefully into the long sedan. Here armed guard followed her, and they sped away.
Chan had survived gangs, the mafia and thugs before, but this brazen act startled him. He didn’t know if he was still being watched. He suspected jealous employees of being aligned with gangs. But he knew there must be a way. He would need to be smart, clever and awake to opportunities.
Someone touched his shoulder again and he almost jumped out of his skin. When he focused again, he came face to face with Angie, whose family owned the tourist gift shop two doors from his restaurant. She gave him a big hug and whispered in his ear, “What would you like to tell Bandit?”
“Just tell him to be careful,” Chan said.
“Send me notes in fried rice containers,” Angie said. “When you need to reach him. I’ll take care of it.” She gave him another hug and returned to her colorful shop full of Feng Shui artifacts, fountains and bamboo plants.
She ran the shop with her aging father and all the women in her family. They were a tight knit group who owned this shop since Chinatown began in the ‘40s. Half Chinese, her features were round and her smile sincere.
Bandit and Marko rolled their choppers into the Cantina garage and shut the door. Packed, the Cantina bustled with activity. It was Bandit’s Nirvana, he loved every wood beam and Spanish tile on the deck, all his smiling waitresses and every drunken patron. They felt the family atmosphere and Bandit couldn’t let anything happen to it.
Bandit and Marko went their separate ways in the facility, but before, Bandit said, “I need you to man the fort, protect the perimeter, and let me know if anything moves in the wrong direction. I need to go this alone for a minute.”
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“Hey Frankie,” Bandit shouted to Frankie who was polishing the brass handles on the big oak doors. “I’ll meet you out back. Bring the delivery van.”
Bandit started for his stairs, then stopped and looked around the bar and dining room. He grabbed Marko, “Make sure we don’t have any spies on the premises.”
Bandit bolted up the stairs, removed his riding gear and dressed in all black running gear. He opened his gun safe and loaded up a backpack with weapons and supplies. He scrambled down his private escape route into the galley. Margaret met him with a small bag of taquitos, special made by the Chinaman.
“Some fuel to keep you going,” Margaret said. She was the shining star in the joint, packed with smiles and positive energy. Bandit was elated that he found her. “Thanks,” I’ll need these.
She handed him two water bottles and Bandit moved to the rear of the van. “I’ll stay back here for now.”
Frankie jumped in the cab and peeled across the Cantina parking lot to the entrance. “Where the fuck are we going?” He said.
“Head toward the Leeward Marina,” Bandit said and with his back against the inside of the bare Cantina van, he pulled his cell phone and dialed Smokey, the old outlaw who lived on a powerboat. “I need a used van for a couple of days,” Bandit said. “A throw away. It might not survive.”
“Got it,” Smokey said. He was small, but a fighter and had survived 30 years in a rough, disorganized bike club. Most of the members were in prison or dead. “Where do you want it?”
“How about behind Shamrocks Sea Food,” Bandit said.
“I’ll be there in 30 with a full tank of gas,” Smokey said and hung up.
“Good,” Frankie said. We need a case or two of shrimp.”
In ten minutes, they arrived at Shamrocks, behind Anaheim in Wilmington, and Frankie started loaded frozen shrimp in the back of the Cantina Van even at 1:00 in the dark morning. Another 15 minutes passed, and a rusted and dinged cargo van rumbled into the parking lot and stopped.
In a matter of less than a minute, Bandit and Smokey make the exchange and Bandit pulled the old ’76 Econoline van into the street and disappeared.
Intelligence was sparse as he turned onto the Long Beach Freeway heading north, toward downtown Los Angeles and the home of the homeless. He found a small street off 4th lined with homeless tents, drug addicts, alcoholics and folks shitting in the street. For some odd reason, the mayor of Los Angeles related to these folks and decided he liked them more than the taxpaying business owners.
Bandit pulled up and parked behind the last tent. He needed some time to collect information and get some sleep. It was almost 3:00 in the morning and the sun would break the horizon in three hours.
Times were nuts. With all the social media and communications devices. His son in Austin, Texas watched Instagram, his connection in India, kept an eye on Facebook. He had two connections in Chinatown, several with outlaw clubs in the region. There were restaurant and shipping links and bikers were everywhere and they were all connected.
His cell phone rang at 6:33 in the morning. “Got a call,” Marko said. “Some guy who knew you a while back, directed Biker build-offs, lives just above Chinatown on the north side of downtown. He said a Chinese gang took over a house near him. No one knows what happened to the owners.”
“Gimme an address,” Bandit said, “Quick.”
