It was just another innocent Saturday afternoon in the Cantina Parking lot. One of the cute waitresses, Tina, suggested a swap meet to drive more traffic to the Cantina on the weekends. On a cool October weekend the sky was brilliant blue with just enough billowing clouds to hold any remaining summer heat at bay. It was perfect as vendors set up their wares from old bike parts, to antiques and even a couple of local salsa sales booths offered samples. The Chinaman, the Cantina chef, discretely tested the latter.
We even had a couple of dealers show up with unsold accessories, clothing and out of stock parts. The brothers rolled in on their bikes to grab morning Bloody Marys and check the goods strewn on the asphalt parking log. What could be better?
A bright-eyed brunette from a local dealership brought a truckload of discounted items and they sold like gangbusters as the sun crested the harbor and warmed the pavement.
Marko jogged through the product-filled rows and tables looking to score nothing. A minimalist, he didn’t want for anything, except maybe a new set of training gloves or another knife. When he was finished, he made a perch where he could watch the action from a security standpoint.
He expected a few angry patch-holders trying to make a name for themselves in San Pedro, and he wanted to watch for thieves, drug dealers, and teenage skateboard gangs who might slither into the parking lot, stealth-like and make off with a cadre of shit before anyone was wiser.
All went well as the sun warmed the dark pavement and everyone had a good time. Of course Marko and Frankie watched out for hot girls in just the right yoga pants or low-cut blouses, and they spotted an exceptional one as they were just about to shut the meet down and prepare for happy hour.
A blacked-out Dyna rolled into the parking area adorned in pure SOA all-black flare. The bike was completely satin-blacked out, as were the rider and his passenger, although she broke the code slightly with additional bling. The rider’s flat black half helmet contained a touch of pinstripping and he sported a skull mask to protect his delicate features. He wore black denims, black books, a black long sleeve shirt and a black vest. He had no pins or patches adorning the new slick leather. He seemed young and as newbie as they come.
He kicked out his kickstand as if he was on a mission. The girl with a hint of decorative bling dismounted and came alive. She was all voluptuous curves and alluring shapes. She didn’t sport a mask and her features were fine alabaster and perfect. She studied her lipstick for just a second in one of his blacked-out mirrors.
Her lips were as indulgent as the rest of her. Even from across the parking lot, she stole the show, and Marko and Frankie perked up as if they just turned on the coffee.
Taller than her escort in spiked leather boots, she opened her leather coat to reveal a massive, turquoise-enhanced concho belt accentuating her shapely hips sprayed with shear black yoga pants. And her deeply cut and lace lined top left little to the imagination. Her nipples playfully teased her audience.
The rider removed his helmet, the skull and black mask and revealed his Asian decent, and then he unraveled his long black hair and straightened it, then placed an engraved silver clasp around the silky length. Marko didn’t like what he saw. The rider pulled a woven leather riding crop off his bars about a foot and a half long and ran his gloved hand along it’s length, while bending it.
He turned toward the girl and ran the riding crop up over her calf, that shapely thigh, and then snapped it against her ass. Her heavily made-up eyes flashed as she pulled her shades down and glanced seductively at her master.
Frankie glanced at Marko and the both nodded in unison. A knockout in the first order, they watched her turn and stroll down the first isle. Her bouncing bubble butt stopped traffic at each booth.
More girls and guys arrived, bought stuff, looked at Harleys for sale and ended up at the bar. The day was a massive success and everyone had a great time and scored something they probably didn’t need.
Two days later, the bright, brown-eyed brunette from Bartels’ H-D called and tearfully reported that cops scoured her shop looking for evidence regarding a missing young girl whose parents were desperate to find her.
“They wanted to see my counter tapes,” Mage said. “They couldn’t find anything. But I swear I’ve seen this girl before.”
“You have a photo of her?” Marko asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I made a copy to share around here.”
“Text me the image,” Marko said, “If you can.”
“Right away,” Mage replied. “I know Bandit has sources.”
“We will get back to you,” Marko said and hung up.
Less than 30 seconds later, a shot flashed onto Marko’s cell phone, of a very young, beautiful Hispanic girl in a school uniform. Marko took one look at those perfectly soft features, delicate cheekbones and sparkling eyes capable of melting freight trains and recognized the girl from the swap meet. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
The Cantina crew went into action. Frankie and Marko sat and discussed the rider and the girl for any info.
Marko called Mage back. “We saw the girl at the swap meet. Did you sell anything interesting? Remember the slick looking couple in all-new black riding gear? Did you recognize the rider? He didn’t happen to buy his bike from Bartels’?”
“As a matter of fact,” Mage said, “let me get back to you.”
The wheels turned, but everyone was burning daylight. A young college student with dubious sexual tendencies was missing. Her desperate parents contacted every law enforcement agency in Southern California, including several women’s groups and the college she attended, UCLA. Could it be a sorority case?
Maybe another fraternity group went wrong at a party, or was she pissed off and went to Vegas for the weekend. And what about the dark Asian rider? Was she lost in a drug binge in a motel in Palm Springs? The options were endless for a beautiful young woman in Los Angeles, and the potential outcomes could run from a party to remember to dancing with the devil in the pale moonlight. Time, the critical element, wasn’t on anyone’s side.
Fortunately, Bartels’ opened on Monday and Mage never stopped. Responsible for the apparel and tchotchke counters, she moved around the massive glass displays checking stock, pricing, and conditions of each arrangement. But the missing girl, Maria Olvera, weighed heavy on her mind.
Mage looked at the counter containing goofy shit like H-D shot glasses, lighters, pen sets, and other trinkets. There was a gap, an opening in the glass shelf, and mentally she made a note to fill it. Then she asked herself what was missing. Her heavy dark eyebrows tightened over big brown eyes. Suddenly, her eyes glistened with stark awareness, and she reached for her cell phone.
“Cantina?” Marko said.
“Two things,” Mage spit into the phone. “We sold that bastard his Dyna Glide and I remember something I sold at the Cantina Meet.”
“Yeah?” Marko said.
“We were selling H-D handcuffs, but decided it wasn’t a good idea,” Mage said. “I took the last pair to your event. He bought them.”
“What about the bike?” Marko said.
“He’s been coming around the shop for years,” Mage said. “He’s a poser. He owned t-shirts and leathers long before he bought a bike. And every time he comes in, he has a new young’un on his arm. He was way too old for these chicks. Something about him.”
“So, where does he live?” Marko asked quickly.
“We are trying to find out right now,” Mage said. “I’ll let you know what happens.”
Marko conferred with Bandit, and they agreed the Marina Del Rey cops would have it sorted out in no time.
The day rolled along without a hitch. Marko and the Cantina crew prepared for the Monday Night Football crowd. The Chinaman worked up a terrific appetizer platter selection and Frankie swept the parking lot, trimmed the bushes and generally detailed the exterior.
Just as the sun began to set, Marko’s cell phone rang. “There’s a problem,” Mage blurted. “He lived on a boat for two years in Marina Del Rey. The boat is gone, but divers found the handcuffs on the bottom. They’ve called the Coast Guard.”
The Cantina, like so many places in life, is in a sense a façade. On the exterior, it’s all about chips, salsa and frosty drinks, when behind the scenes, serious shit comes down once in a while. All the phone lines buzzed.
There were less than a half-dozen marinas in the massive harbor, and the Port of LA tried everything they could to deny their leases, hoping they would disappear and the docks could be turned into another container ship dock. There was always some behind the scenes effort to usurp land from the community to be used to make the port even more profitable, but there were laws regarding a required percentage for the community. Still the port constantly tried to alter and mess with them for their own benefit.
Bandit and his team flew to work reaching out to marina operators for information. “This punk could be in Catalina or Mexico,” Marko said.
Bandit called a Vago MC member who made a Wilmington marina his base of illicit operations. “Captain,” Bandit said. “Can you hook me up with someone trustworthy in the office?”
“The redhead of redheads will do the deed,” Captain Green said. “I’ll get back to you or she will call you directly. She knows every boat and slip in this marina.”
Marko called the Marina where Sinwu ran the Chowder barge, the last of the floating restaurants. An old Outlaw MC member owned a houseboat. The Marina operator couldn’t be reached, but a connection was made to the biker. He went on the hunt.
The Cantina phone rang and Marko snatched it from the cradle. “Cantina,” he snapped.”
“What’s up?” a light entertaining female voice slipped across the waves.
Marko explained quickly. There was a brief hesitation and a gasp on the other end of the line. “He leased a slip yesterday,” the redhead said.
“Are you the redhead of Redheads?” Marko said.
“Yep,” her voice had a youthful bounce to it.
“I’ll call you right back,” Marko said. “Don’t move.”
The redhead who recently took the job set the phone down and looked at her ledger book. She rented the slip to the middle-aged Asian who asked about motorcycle parking, but there was no girl. The slip number, 144, danced on the card in her freckle-riddled fingers as she wondered what the hell was going on.
Her hair was auburn and as full as a tropical storm and wavy as the surf on the North Shore of Hawaii. She was beautiful, experienced with marinas, living aboard small boats, sailing and love. She had been there and this gig in the marina tested her every sensibility with alcoholics, drug addicts, struggling relationships and treachery.
As she glanced at the magnificent sunset over the industrial harbor laced with tall structures, the Vincent Thomas Bridge and a battalion of the largest container cranes in the world, she heard the roar of choppers approaching. Out of nowhere a team of Vagos lead by Captain Green approached the office.
At 6’5” Bandit made an imposing figure entering he small seaside office. “Can you point out the slip?” He asked.
The Redhead of Redheads bounced to her delicate feet and danced out of her office to direct them to appropriate spit. Captain Green didn’t like underhanded shit happening in “his” marina. Several of his members held clubs as the cadre of biker madness sought out the slip, the sailboat and the girl.
Bandit could give a shit less about the Asian. He would be dealt with, but the girl. She was a picture of pure satin sexuality like a delicate cloth or flowering rose blossoms. It’s something so strange about women. They could be treacherous beasts, bitches of the lowest order, thieves, drug addicts, you name it, but when they walk into a room adorned in just the right attire, with soft make-up, and the fragrance of angels, there’s nothing so beautiful, alluring, pure, and protected, as if something created by god himself.
On those rare, perfectly lit moments, any woman could do absolutely no wrong. She, for precious moments, contained all the goodness in the world. As these angry brothers surrounded the 36-foot Catalina sloop, each one of them thought only of a blossoming rose in the hands of an angry beast.
Captain Green, a short, stout, long-term Vago, grabbed a wooden club and smacked the hull hard a couple of times. “Come out of there, now,” he barked. “Or we’re coming in.”
Don’t miss the next episode!
