Bandit awoke with a start to a blistering Monday morning in the middle of July, Wuhan Covid 2020. He couldn’t turn on the air-conditioning. Hell, he couldn’t pay his bills. The formidable stack of requests for funds grew like mold on a neglected peach. He wanted to reach for a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Times were tough on restaurants. He wasn’t alone.
The mayor of LA punked out to the forces supporting the homeless and raised all the taxes on LA homeowners and businesses. According to him and his group of socialists, homeownership was at the root of the problem. Just take the homes from the hard-working middle class and give them to the addicted homeless. Bandit rolled violently in his large round bed surrounded by brass framed, large ship portholes allowing the fog on the water to shroud his dire day.
He abruptly stood up and grabbed an iron pull-up bar bolted to the ceiling beams, hung from it and stretched his lanky form and then did five pull-ups, dropped to the thick hardwood deck where he kept two 30-pound dumbbells on thick hearty foam matts. He did six curls with each arm and dropped the dumbbells against their pads violently. This time the pads didn’t prevent dings to the hardwood planks. This time they marred the tough oak floor forever.
Just those deep breaths and blood-pumping moves shifted his brain from despair to alive. He hit the shower and bounded down the stairs to the empty dining room. Except for staff, who sat around a large oak dining table and waited for the supreme Chinaman chef to deliver brunch.
Bandit reviewed the frowns on his staff and despair attempted to return. There was skinny Frankie, the janitor, Marko, the manager, security director, Margaret the cute bartender, Mandy, Tina, and Sheila, the lovely waitresses and of course lifetime customer Clay, who held his first Corona of the day.
Bandit was still paying them, except Clay, albeit reduced salaries and the government was helping. “Don’t say a word,” Bandit snapped. “I’ll check on chow.”
He pushed open the swinging stainless, galley doors, sporting polished stainless portholes and bordered with brass rivets. The large rotund chef in full crisp white uniform and tall rippled top hat knelt on the deck and embraced the Hispanic family, who sobbed in his arms. They became the illegal alien arm of the Cantina family.
“What the fuck?” Bandit barked.
The Chinaman stood up abruptly and the family stared at Bandit wide-eyed like fawns is the headlights of a storming semi.
“You made them my responsibility,” Chinaman started and bowed slightly. “I can no longer keep them on board.”
“Bullshit,” Bandit barked. “They are part of the family now. There must be a solution to this madness.” He knelt and stared into 5’6” tall Jose’s warm brown eyes. Maria, his wife sobbed into a delicate white embordered handkerchief. Their two small Children grew, going to school and working in the Cantina. Juan was now 13 and his sister, Christina was a very helpful 12. He put his arms around the kids, who loved being active members of the Cantina, playing on the docs and watching sailboats drift in and out of the harbor. “We’ll make it.”
He returned to the dining room and stood at the foot of the foot of the dining room table. The Cantina had been closed for almost two months. Some of the staff lived in the inside, because of the threat of the Chinese Covid.
Marko, the tough guy, was a brilliant strategist and made sure they could order anything they needed delivered directly to their doors. Marko set up a system at the rear doors so drivers could deliver goods, ring a bell for a signature and slip a clipboard into a slot for signing and blaze away without contact.
The system worked. No one on the staff caught anything, but it bothered Bandit. Being sequestered all the time was imprisonment and not healthy. “Let’s go outside,” he said, “and bring your chairs.”
The staff carried their heavy wooden chairs out the massive oak front door into the sun burning the moist fog off the harbor. The Cantina, an island on a peninsula dock overlooking the harbor, was surrounded by the harbor’s brine on three sides. Behind the restaurant Marko set up his private fishing spot behind the motorcycles-only garages. He attempted to fish and sorta meditate as often as possible after the restaurant closed. Now, he had more time to work out and breathe.
The big, stout man opened one of the garage doors and pulled out a folding table for the staff to encircle with their chairs. Bubbly Mandy returned to the restaurant for utensils and napkins. Her boobs bounced under and around her sultry, gathered, cotton, traditional Hispanic top.
Tina stood and gathered her thick auburn wavy hair in a rubber band and inquired about drinks. Bandit stood at the edge of the dock and stared out at the main channel. Ships kept coming laden with tons of cargo contained in 20 and 40-foot perfectly snapped together containers.
Tugs still motored up and down the channel assisting larger and larger container ships to and away from docks. But Bandit could sense the Chinese or Wuhan Covid stress on the economy. Marko, continued to order motorcycle parts and they arrive consistently from the UPS and FedEx drivers, who also seemed busy, but retail shops were shuttered all over town, restaurants shut down, pet shops closed, and even strip clubs were abandoned.
As the Chinaman and his smiling Hispanic staff served a variety of Breakfast Burritos, tamales and a fresh green salad with cilantro, lush tomatoes, carrots and red, orange and yellow sliced peppers, Marko approached Bandit. “How much longer can we hang on?”
Bandit looked out at the rippling channel and his cell phone started to ring. He glanced at his phone as the sun started to break over the harbor and noticed the date. The phone told him that a member of the Freedom Caucus was calling for a donation and he didn’t have anything to give. He looked at Marko, looked at his phone and looked at the channel. “Freedom always works,” Bandit said. “It’s time to plan a ride to Sturgis.”
“What the fuck,” Marko snapped. “We can’t keep the Cantina open, how can we make the run to Sturgis/”
“Can we sell a motorcycle?”
“Let’s eat,” the Chinaman said setting a glorious colorful ceramic platter in the center of the table. “The tamales are the inspiration of Jose and his wife, Maria. They worked a food truck in Mexico.”
Bandit sat at the head of the dismal table. The sun was beginning to shine, and the table glistened with fiesta colors and benevolence. Marko sat to his left. Bandit smack him. “You’re going to love this,” he said.
“I want to make a toast to our future,” Bandit said. “And I hate to give speeches. We are going to survive this bullshit Chinese flu together. It’s going to take hard work and we’ll need every penny to work for us and bring us a quarter.”
“We are going to split the crew,” Bandit continued. “A handful of us will take a food truck to Sturgis and test freedom. The other half will run the Cantina like a to-go joint.”
“But…” Marko attempted to throw a mud pie in the mix.
“I know what you’re going to say, goddammit,” Bandit interrupted. “You’re the manager, started working out the crews and I’ll hunt for money.”
The uplifted staff and immediately stated their preferences for going or staying. Margaret needed to stay to keep an eye on her wayward son. Chinaman would stay and take over all the cooking duties. Marko kicked himself. He would have liked to hit the road with his brother, but he knew the Cantina needed security and a manager to make the operation work.
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Sure, Clay would stay. He couldn’t take the chance that a cold Corona would not be available daily. Frankie would stay and help in any way he could, including janitorial duties.
The table, a feast of Mexican delights glistened in the almost noon sun against sparkling glasses. Even as they devoured the chow, the colorful ceramic plates, colored glass drinking ware reflected the warmth and beauty of the seaside. The smiles and the banter reminded Bandit of better times. Determined to bring them back, he had a mission.
“Jose, you mentioned food trucks,” Bandit said. “Can we get one, outfit it and hit the road in a week?
“Yes Mr. Bandito,” Jose said. “I know all the food truck guys in the port. Someone is always selling a truck and Maria is a good driver.”
Bandit nodded to Marko. “Hey, Tina wants to go with you. I think she is getting the hots for you,” Marko said.
“I need someone I can trust to get the hots for me,” Bandit said. “Rough out a budget for this endeavor and I’m going to see about selling my Panhead.”
“You’ve had that puppy since the beginning,” Marko added concerned.
“It’s that or an SBA loan,” Bandit said. “We’re burning daylight. Not sure the government can move fast enough.”
Bandit called Jeremiah, his deal maker. “I’m selling my modified ’48 Panhead,” Bandit said. “Can you help?”
“Let me see what I can do,” Jeremiah said and started to talk about his wayward redheaded girlfriend. Bandit could easily burn through an hour with him and his tales of woe.
“Brother, I’ve got to go,” Bandit interrupted. “I’m planning a run to Sturgis.”
“Fuck, can I go,” Jeremiah spat.
“Check your schedule,” Bandit said and attempted to hang up.
Jeremiah launched into an expletive strewn tirade about the fish trucking trade and how the company constantly changed his schedule.
“Let me know,” Bandit said and hung up. He wondered what makes some folks talk incessantly as if a light switch is thrown on, and they don’t stop until someone can get to the switch and turn it off.
He reached out to a couple of other guys who knew and dealt with older bikes. He sent them photos and descriptions of his 1948 Panhead that he traded for at the Fresno MMA run in 1974. It was a kid’s first bike and Bandit didn’t know what got into him, but he ended up riding the Panhead home after a wild whiskey-soaked weekend.
Nearing the first of August, Marko and Bandit met every day. Gradually, Marko’s emphasis roamed to the Cantina and Bandit’s toward the Sturgis run. Bandit had to roll before the 4th or 5th of August. Every day, Marko looked at him and at the budget.
Jose pulled Bandit aside, “We need to go look at some trucks.”
“Okay,” Bandit said. “Let’s roll.”
“But we can’t go on your chopper,” Jose said with a deep petrified frown.
“Why not,” Bandit said and realized he was right.
“Okay,” Let’s take your pickup. Jose pulled his 20-year-old Datsun pickup around front and Bandit coiled himself, so he could squeeze into the cab of the old off-white and rusting truck.
They drove five miles to Wilmington, the heart of the grubby industrial port, where the city councilman allowed homeless RVs to park and live. The cops were ordered to leave these people alone to litter, steal, shit in the streets and attack local folks and businesses. They roamed desolated, damaged and destroyed streets lined with corrugated, galvanized 10-foot high fences, painted with graffiti, painted over in gray and spray-painted again with gang graffiti, and Japanese cartoon characters.
The streets were strewn with trash, old tires, yet most of the metal was scavenged and taken to the many recycling stations. Dirty, packed gutters, were heavy with dirt made up of ground gravel, needles, asphalt, fine particles of steel and asbestos shaved from thousands of brake pads.
Jose turned left on Lakme a street that had never been finished. It was a block between C street and Harry Bridges full of large irregular potholes, like a war zone in the middle east. They bounced and swerved until they pulled along a food truck covered in fluorescent vinyl lettering and images of platters of Mexican food. In the corner of one of the windows was a for sale sign.
Jose knocked on the rear door and an obese white woman opened the metal squeaking door. Drunk before noon, the toothless woman said. “What is it?”
“We are looking for a food truck,” Jose said. “Why are you selling this?”
“My husband died last week of liver failure,” she responded in a dour tone and lit a cigarette. “He didn’t have life insurance and we recently bought this. There’s no way I can handle the debt and keep it going by myself.”
She showed him through the truck as Jose asked questions about the vehicle and equipment. Bandit roamed the outside of the large GMC vehicle checking the tires and the exterior vents, the cab interior and engine compartment.
Jose stepped out of the stern of the truck. “Thank you for your time ma’am. We need to check some other trucks, but we’ll get back to you.”
“Please,” she said. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Could we take over the payments?” Bandit inquired.
“I’m up for it,” She said, “but I’m running out of time.”
“We will get back to you later today,” Bandit said. “Thanks for your time.”
They climbed into the small cab and slowly navigated the wicked-rough street to the corner. “What did you think?” Bandit said.
“It’s dirty, but only about four years old and has all the equipment we need,” Jose added.
Over the next couple of hours, they looked at food trucks turned meth labs, some barely running, others with people trying to live in them. They ran from 29,000 to over $60,000. They were way more expensive than Bandit hoped for, and Margaret called during their research. “An eviction notice arrived today,” she said. “Nobody else saw it.”
“Good,” Bandit said. “How much time do we have?”
“Sixty days,” Margaret said, trying to be strong. “Marko is talking to a potential buyer about your Panhead.
His other line started to blink. It was Marko trying to get through. “Gotta go,” Bandit said to Margaret. “Marko on the other line. We’ll make it.”
“What’s the word?” Bandit said to Marko.
“He’s got 18 grand cash,” Marko said.
“Take it,” Bandit said. “I’ll be there in 20 minutes to sign the pink slip. We have one shot to make this work.”
“Pull into Louie’s Chinese food,” Bandit said to Jose. That woman in the food truck looked like she hadn’t had anything good to eat in a while.”
“You’re right,” Jose said. “She couldn’t make a PB&J in that truck. I think her crew was gone and her husband was the chef.”
They pulled into Louie’s parking lot. “Keep the engine running,” Bandit said. He ran inside, wearing a mask, ordered food from the buffet and a large Thai iced tea. He always gave them a big tip, which the lovely Chinese woman shared with her Hispanic crew. They all smiled, and the boss handed Bandit a fortune cookie and bowed slightly. “This one is for you.”
“Amituofo,” Bandit said and bowed to the family, then grabbed his bag of to-go Chinese food full of vegetables, protein and carbs but all tasty stuff, the best in town.
They jammed back to the large woman and her food truck on nasty Lakme street. On the way Bandit broke open the fortune cookie and shared the treat with Jose. Bandit read the fortune. ?
“Get this,” he said to Jose and read the fortune out loud. “Real courage is moving forward when the outcome is uncertain.”
They pulled up abruptly behind the food truck and jumped out of the dusty truck. She opened the door and smiled some as Bandit emerged with the Chinese food. “I hope you like Chinese food.”
“I love it,” She smiled. “I haven’t eaten in a couple of days except junk and candy bars.”
“Do you have all the paperwork on the truck?” Bandit said.
“Yes, I have the file and they are demanding a payment,” she said.
“Will you take enough to get you down the road if I can take over the loan?” Bandit said and she nodded. We will be very fair, if we can make this happen.”
Bandit reached out to the loan company and Marko hammered the numbers. Within the next 24 hours the food truck was stripped of all its vinyl signage and a Bandit’s Cantina replaced the name and a simple menu was added: Burritos, Tacos, Tamales and a salad. Fresh and clean were the last scripted words. Jose and his clan, cleaned the GMC food truck until is sparkled, changed the fluids, replaced the propane tanks, water system, you name it.
Over the weekend, Bandit’s Cantina transformed into a to-go joint with an outside patio bar set up for serious social distancing. Marko and the girls made signage boards all the way to Harbor Blvd.
Bandit kept looking at his phone message from the Freedom Caucus. “We are our own Freedom Coalition,” Bandit said to Marko. “It’s a test. If it works in two weeks, we’ll be back on top. If not, we take this crew and the food truck and buy a lot in Arizona.”
Monday morning before the Sturgis Rally kick-off the next Saturday, Ricki, the South Dakota Governor announced the Rally would move forward and Bandit and his crew rolled toward Vegas on Interstate 15. Bandit rode his chopper and Jeremiah rode his ’09 Dyna Glide. Bandit and the mad talker peeled at speeds to the next designated stop where they would wait on the truck.
At each stop they refueled, and the girls would serve anyone who approached the Bandit’s Cantina food coach. They tested their menu and the Chinaman’s green and red salsas. They bought jalapenos and cilantro in Baker the home of wild Greek food and the largest Thermometer in California. It glanced off 100 degrees and the air was dry as a popcorn fart. Even tarantulas looked for shade.
Bandit, Marko and the Chinaman figured their break-even figures. If they had an average purchase of 15 bucks and 100 customers in a day, that would be $1500 gross. About a third of that would go to food daily, after about 2 grand in set-up costs. And the cost for employees at about $100 a day for mom and Tina and $125 a day for the chef. Between the Cantina and the coach, they needed to clear about 30 grand to set everything straight in San Pedro.
As soon as they hit Primm, the California Border and just 50 miles later rolled through blistering Las Vegas, the covid threat dispersed. As they cleared the Utah border mask wearing diminished considerably and more motorcycles were seen on the horizon heading toward the Badlands.
They refueled, checked the coach when it rumbled into the gas stop and spent the night in Coalville. From the 15 they dodged the city of Salt Lake to reach Park City and the 80. They spent their second night in Coalville Utah, just 20 miles from the Wyoming border.
“What the fuck is wrong with these people?” Jeremiah said. “Don’t they know the world is dying of the Chinese crude.” Fewer and fewer folks wore masks.
“Relax,” Bandit said. “This is a free country, just keep your distance.”
The wide interstate 80 took them to Rawlings. Jose ran to Bandit’s bike at a strange independent gas stop. “Something is wrong with the truck!”
“What’s it doing?” Bandit said returning to the truck with Jose and his son Juan, who looked concerned.
“As we pulled off the freeway, it started to shake,” Jose said.
“Did you check the tires?” Bandit asked and started to round the truck checking the tires and kicking the wheels.
“Here it is,” Jeremiah shouted from the front right corner. “You’re lucky.”
They all stared at the big steel wheel. “Grab a tire iron,” Bandit instructed. “Do you have one?”
“Yes,” Jose said and opened the cab door.
“Jeremiah,” Bandit said. “Start the refueling. I’ll grab the blue Loctite off my bike.” He handed him a credit card.
“Will this work?” Jeremiah said. “I brought some cash.”
“I made a payment,” Bandit replied. “We should make it to the Badlands.”
Bandit and Jose removed the loose lug nuts one at a time, gave them a shot of blue Loctite and replace them. They worked hard sweating their butts off to make sure each lug was tightened and retightened. Then they checked all the other wheels for loose lug nuts.
“Must have been a distracted tech, where we had this puppy serviced,” Bandit said. “Let’s roll.”
From Rawlings they rolled north on the 189 through Muddy Gap to Casper and smaller highways heading northwest across Wyoming into the Badlands. It took them just three days to blaze to South Dakota 1,320 miles from San Pedro.
They stayed outside the costly city of Sturgis and started working various locations around Whitewood and Spearfish Canyon. The reception was wild. They were a hit wherever they parked, and Maria and the beautiful Tina made the patrons comfortable while Jose and Juan cooked up the best Mexican food during the rally. The Chinaman turned them onto his favorite Burrito recipe packed with grilled onions, potatoes, bell peppers, carrots and celery. Then chorizo and chicken got added to the frying pan along with a scrambled egg and finally the Cantina’s signature salsa.
Bandit acted as security, the greeter, the errand boy, the bookkeeper, you name it. He tallied the take after each evening and Jose and Maria went after supplies. On the way to the Badlands they were lucky to sell 75 meals a day, but once they hit the region the number climbed and faltered depending on the location.
Some brothers made sure to know the next location so they were on hand to order breakfast every day. Bandit was always nearby helping brothers with their bikes and touching Tina when he had the chance.
As the rally grew, so did riders from all over the country and mask use diminished until whole days slipped by without a mask sighting. Everyone looked healthy and loving life outside in the sun and the glorious landscape of the black hills. The rumble of motorcycles in Deadwood, tucked into the Jack pine strew hills was deafening and the brothers and sisters loved every day. Some locals ran away or closed their shops.
Jeremiah told Bandit his schedule daily and never kept to it. Searching the hills for wild custom motorcycles and famous builders, he blasted from one party, or concert to the next.
Bandit hung with the coach and made deposits to the local bank. He filled out the forms to pay state sales tax. He tried to honor the rules enough to get out of town without going to jail. He couldn’t risk any harm to his hardworking staff. They set up at Cheyenne Crossing coming into Lead where the 85 met with Spearfish Canyon. Riders from the South could peel into Spearfish through a narrow canyon peppered with rich Jack pines, fast moving, icy streams and cascading waterfalls. Settlers discovered gold in the 1800s and miners flocked to the Badlands.
Three days into the rally Bandit reviewed the financials and called Marko. “How are you doing?” Bandit asked.
“We’re doing good,” Marko said. “I’m netting about a grand a day. It’s improving as word gets out. Our bar tab is helping, but brothers are afraid to be seen outdoors without a mask on.”
Bandit quickly calculated gross receipts, and the net. They were close, but it wasn’t good enough. He needed help with fresh produce for the upcoming day, but Jeremiah never made it after a night of non-stop partying at the Buffalo Chip. Bandit tied a set of tattered leather saddlebags over his rear fender, discussed the list with Maria and Jose and took the road toward Lead and the DakotaMart at the top of the pass leading into Deadwood.
It felt good to hit the road. The sun sparkled off the Jack Pines and the road appeared manicured with closely cropped green grass. Signs warned of deer and elk crossing and Bandit kept his eyes peeled for anything that might move in the gulley next to the winding road.
He couldn’t have a mishap. The dichotomy of life surrounded him. The glorious beauty of the region. His pipes like six-shooters blasting away in the woods. The brotherhood of two wheels and freedom in a world gone mad. A deadly foreign illness threat in cities, but where was it in South Dakota. His outlaw staff made up of illegal aliens, an ex-stripper and an outlaw trying to survive in a world rife with regulation but that hates the regulators. Nothing made any sense as he twisted his throttler hard and his Evo chopper sang a tune of wild abandon in one of the last frontiers.
Suddenly, a graceful deer with brilliant large brown eyes bolted from the streambed following the highway. It leapt out of the brush and over the stream, parallel to the road. Bandit let off the throttle. Each bounding motion, full of grace and the spring contained a level of panic and erratic behavior. The deer shot briefly into the open field then abruptly, jerked to the left, over the spring like a mystic gliding on air, up the ravine and into the street in front of Bandit.
Bandit’s mind flashed in a surreal compendium of thoughts and emotions of Christina, the daughter of Jose playing alongside the Cantina food coach without a care in the world, to the next deposit and the list of groceries he was responsible for. He wanted to reach for his front brake, but he knew better. He slammed the rear brake and the rear Avon lit up like a smoke bomb and the bike started to slide sideways.
Bandit aimed the Paughco tapered-leg springer at the deer as if it was sight for a high-powered rifle. A calm swept over him. Time shifted to slow-mo. and he waited, Zen like for the deer’s next move, and he knew it would. He down shifted and took his left foot off the peg and let it drop to the pavement.
He pissed off the last cobbler who worked on his cowboy boots. The guy wanted to replace the road-worn soles with sticky, heavy traction rubber soles. Bandit wanted tough leather soles for riding or sliding during situations just like this one. He had to slide to survive.
The young deer, as agile as leopard after a prey, felt the terror of being hunted and jerked with panic again. This would be the ace in the hole or a Deadman’s hand for Bandit. The bike leaned closer to the pavement and was nearly sideways when the deer jerked into the oncoming lane and Bandit let go of the rear brake and dropped his BDL locking clutch, keeping the front end on its trajectory just a foot from the double line separating the lanes.
Bandit’s focus concentrated on this wild evil zone of life and death and not on the massive F-250 with a giant, deer protecting grill coming the other direction at 80 mph, just 25 miles over the speed limit. His chopper, with the additional rake and trail immediately started to right itself, but suddenly he became aware of the black on black, high-dollar truck coming the other direction.
Just as he was about to take a breath, he heard the screeching of the wide tires against the rough asphalt. The truck was cool but would the owner panic and cross the line to avoid the fleeing animal and the damage to his new Ford.
Bandit noted the mudflap girls surrounding his license plate, then the Harley flag flying like a bat outta hell over his bed. The driver behind the tinted glass was a brother, but would it matter. The deer, in full blown panic, jerked, but it was too late. The truck bumper shattered the deer’s skeleton and stopped his or her heart immediately. The deer’s neck broke and the carcass collapsed on the asphalt as the truck came to a halt.
Bandit pull up and well off the highway to the right and jumped off his bike. He ran to the pickup as the driver’s door opened. Out stepped a tall redheaded woman. Shaken, she embraced Bandit like they were lovers from another time. She wore cowboy boots, but just not regular cowboy boots, the bling kind with embroidery and leather embossed layers. Her form fitting denims were tight and perfectly formed to her succulent ass and then there was that narrow waist and $1000 leather belt and silver buckle, then the biker cowboy shirt open to reveal massive bolt-on cleavage. It was as if a young Lorretta Lynn, stepped out of the idling F-250 and into his arms.
The best part was her face out of a dream and eyes like emerald pools.
“Are you alright?” Bandit said, then it hit him. He knew her.
“I’m okay,” Pepper said. “How about you?”
Bandit checked out her truck and pulled the carcass off into the emergency lane. Her massive front bumper contained a bump and lots of blood and guts. “Listen,” Pepper said pulling at his shoulder. “I’m cool and the truck is fine. I’ll take it directly to a car wash.”
“This is your old man’s?” Bandit asked.
“Yes,” Pepper’s green eyes bore into Bandit’s. “I’ll be fine, but can we hook up just one more time.”
“Let me have your number,” Bandit said. His mind whirled with thoughts of his encounters with her in Sturgis five years earlier, and then in Laughlin which led to Vegas.
“I’ve wanted to come to your Cantina, but my ol’ man won’t let me out of Texas,” Pepper said pulling on Bandit. Everything about her screamed sex. Her old man was a big shot in a major 1%er club in Texas.
“I’ve got to move,” Bandit said, “but I will call you.”
“Please,” she said and pressed her massive, soft boobs against his chest which brought back memories of heaven between the sheets.
They kissed in the center of the highway, as if the world suddenly stopped. Deep and lingering, Bandit felt her deep urgency and a desire to pick her up and head for the hills.
“I promise,” Bandit said and pulled away. “You’re a dream come true. Take care.” He ran to his bike, straddled it, fired it to life and peeled away without looking back. He had to get to the store and back to the coach licketly split. He was burning daylight.
He couldn’t believe what just happened to him. He tried to center himself in the saddle and the road wound into Lead and he brought his focus back to watching out for critters on the road. He wanted to pull off the road into the woods, smoke a joint and relive what just happened, but he had no time.
He donned a mask and dashed into the DakotaMart in Lead and bought groceries and supplies. He found fresh lettuce, cilantro, parsley, eggs, carrots, tortillas and such, jammed through the checkout line and packed his bike to the gills.
Leaning over his saddlebags, his cell phone began to ring. “Yeah,” Bandit said.
“Could Wim be back?” Marko asked anxiously.
“What happened?” Bandit answered with another anxious question.
“Someone attacked the Cantina last night,” Marko said in rapid succession. “They tore up all of our sign boards and fucked with the outdoor bar seating.”
“Can you fix the joint?” Bandit asked his anxiety spreading.
“Yes,” Marko said. “We’re on it, but it fucked with my numbers for yesterday. We are just beginning to pull ahead of the curve.”
“Keep me posted,” Bandit said. “I need to get the produce back to the coach.”
Bandit straddled his chopper, his lifelong friend and fired it to life. The long-chromed springer, a divining rod for life generally cut through the confusion. He wondered, beginning to question his plan for survival. He rumbled out of the parking lot and hit 85 south toward the junction. Sharp-eyed for deer he motored easily into the woods and weaved through the valley trying to focus on the beautiful hills around him. Exceedingly difficult, he thought about the remaining days of the week, the take, his hardworking staff and the return trip.
The Cantina in Pedro needed to net $15,000 and he needed about the same to pay up the mortgage, the insurance, property taxes, homeless taxes, utilities, you name it. He was distracted momentarily by the bling cowgirl in the flashy pickup and he thought about a deer guard bumper for the Cantina Coach. Nothing could happen to the coach; besides he needed to make the payments and decide whether to keep it or not.
“Fuck,” Bandit shouted into the wind as he wound through the hills and approached Cheyenne crossing where the 85 meets Spearfish Canyon.
As he pulled up to the intersection he slowed and rolled into the parking lot that wrapped around the bar, restaurant and gift center. The coach looked different. Juan and Christina were setting up the tables with condiments and utensils, but they weren’t bubbly about their duties.
Bandit slid up beside the coach and kicked out his kickstand and leaned the chopper over. Maria ran to his side and started to help unload the produce, making swift trips to the back of the coach, but her bright eyes didn’t meet Bandit’s.
Suddenly, Tina burst out of the back of the coach, her makeup smeared, and the ruffled shoulder of her blouse torn. “Bandit,” she hollered running toward him bursting into tears. “He stole the cash box.”
“Who?” Bandit hollered. Bandit looked past her to meet Jose’s gaze, which was sad and telling.
Tina was a sweet girl, who spoke her mind, which meant she never shut up. A small redhead, with the look of a voluptuous jewel, she contained a mixture of signals, especially in her Cantina uniform, plus she was constant flirt. Bandit nodded to Jose and took Tina in his arms.
“Give me a quick description and a direction he went in,” Bandit said firmly. “End it there.”
“A cowboy in a blue Ford pickup,” Tina said stammering. “I’m sorry, I should have known…”
“More description and which way did he go,” Bandit said. “We’re burning daylight.”
“He’s about 6-foot, thin, torn plaid shirt,” Tina babbled. “His truck was faded with dents, rust and some faded black primer.”
“Wheels?” Bandit said. “Or stickers?” She knew cars.
“It had duals and white Crager Nomad wheels,” Tina said.
“Direction?” Bandit.
“Toward Spearfish,” Tina said. “Down the canyon.”
“Time?” Bandit said and Juan approached with a spare 5-gallon gas can.
Bandit took it from him and nodded, removed his gas cap and began to refuel.
“Maybe ten minutes,” Tina said.
Bandit handed Juan the can and turned to Tina, took her in his arms as she started to ramble. He kissed her deeply and reached into his vest. He pulled out a Buddhist prayer bracelet and slipped it over her narrow wrist. “Take a few minutes to meditated and breath,” Bandit said. “I will always love you.”
He slipped on his shades and straddled the chopper. Maria removed the saddlebags as he pulled a gravely burnout and peeled into Spearfish Canyon. He hit it as hard as he could. Many of the curves were sliced at twice the speed limit. There were a few bikes coming out for breakfast runs and Bandit passed anyone in his mission to find the cowboy and the cash box.
Once more his mind spit with thoughts of losing the Cantina and whether he should have made this move at all. He only had five days left to net $15000 and two more to return to Pedro and pay bills or lose the Cantina.
His Evo chopper spit thunder at the surrounding 1000-foot canyon cliffs. He couldn’t let up. The breathtaking limestone palisades of this creek-carved gorge was more ancient than the Grand Canyon but much closer together. Once accessible only by horseback, now motorcycles sliced through 20 miles from the crossing to the town of Spearfish like a knife through butter.
His V-twin screamed at the hills and his springer bounced yet held tight in the curves. He wasn’t on a mission for his life but for the livelihood of all his staff, some of which had been with him for over 20 years. Riders coming the other direction stopped appearing around the next curve, and then a slow putting Softail owner came around the corner signaling desperately for Bandit to slow down with an up down motion with his leather covered palm.
When he saw how fast Bandit hauled, his arm became frantic and Bandit let off on his throttle. As the sound diminished, he could hear the siren of an emergency vehicle coming up the canyon. As he rounded the next bend, he could see a cop car and a bike down on the asphalt ahead. He bore down on a line of waiting scooters and a pickup in the middle.
Bandit pulled off the side of the road and parked his bike out of harms way. As he swept his right leg over his fender his cell phone rang. “It’s not a Chinese gang,” Marko said. “It’s homeless.”
“I’ve got an issue here,” Bandit said. “Tina got too friendly with a Wyoming Cowboy. He took our cash box.”
“Good luck,” Marko said. “Just don’t get arrested. That won’t fix anything. We need you back here in a week.”
“Thanks,” Bandit said. The desire to reach for his .38 snub nose was overwhelming. The one compelling fact about the study of Buddhism was the enhanced ability to listen.
He walked casually toward the pickup on the driver’s side. He could see through the rear window the driver with a tattered cowboy hat and a rifle behind his head. The truck was just as worn and abused as Tina reflected. Bandit watched as he leaned forward and toward the center of the cab. Maybe he was taking the delay as an opportunity to snort something. Made sense.
Bandit moved quickly alongside the cab to see what was happening, if the truck was running, the driver’s door locked, or the window rolled down. It was. The truck idled and the door was locked.
As he came up beside the faded metallic blue door, he could see the guy snorting another line. Before he could fold his tinfoil stash and hide it, Bandit reached in with a gloved hand and unlocked the door.
Bandit opened the door, before the driver could react, turned off the ignition and pulled the keys out of the switch. They were finally face to face.
The kid’s severely dilated eyes bore into Bandit’s and he smiled with crooked and missing teeth.
“Focus,” Bandit said. “I need my cash box and all the cash.”
“I spent it,” The kid said and snarled, whipping over a long-barreled 44 magnum from beside him on the seat.
“Wrong answer dipshit,” Bandit said. Marko taught Bandit in close-quarters combat and the key was to be close to the assailant. Other surrounding riders, who were stopped started to turn off their bikes and put their kickstands down. Some noticed the encounter in the pickup.
Bandit ran his hand left hand up the cowboy’s right forearm to the barrel of gun, twisted it back breaking the kid’s trigger finger with a nasty snap. He pulled the gun free and tossed it to another rider. Then he grabbed the stunned kid by his collar and yanked him out of the cab, slamming his face in the driver’s window frame, knocking him unconscious. He pulled out his wallet and threw it onto the bench seat next to the gray, tin cash box and searched the kid’s denim pockets before tossing him into the rusting bed of the empty pickup. His head slammed against rust and carriage bolt heads.
Two other riders approached as the tall Bandit tossed the kid’s wallet in the cash box. “He stole our cash box,” Bandit said. “We can’t make it without it.”
“You’re Bandit,” One of the riders said. “We were coming back for breakfast burritos.”
“Anybody want a pickup?” Bandit said holding up the keys. “Burritos are on the house, if you help me push this puppy off the highway. A few brothers stepped forward and pushed as Bandit pushed and steered the vehicle out of the lane. He put it in gear and tossed the keys in the stream bed.
“I’ll be back with the crew at the Cheyenne Crossing in 15.” Bandit said. “Breakfast will be ready in half-an- hour.” He carefully bungeed the cashbox to the sissybar and fired up his chopper for the return trip. “Thanks for the help.”
Relieved, he blasted south through the canyon twisties, past waterfalls and turnouts where brothers from all over the world would pile in for quick stops, while gazing at the lush forest and slick rock churning stream, which carried gold flakes from the mountains into the valley.
His troubles weren’t over, but a major obstacle fell behind him, unless that kid came back for his wallet.
Don’t Miss Part II…
