Bandit roared down Spearfish Canyon and his mind settled with every curve and the rumble of his exhaust blasting off the sheer cliffs and Jack Pines. He came to a stretch where lush pines were knocked over like chess pawns on a polished mahogany game table.
He slowed as he rounded a curve and gazed at large, almost 200-year-old Jack Pines knocked flat, like a tabletop toothpick container run over by a truck. It seemed unnatural and freaky as he twisted his throttle and continued to roar up the canyon toward Cheyenne Crossing and his Bandit’s Cantina food truck.
It dawned on him that a recent monsoon like rain contained a tornado threat. Mother nature’s power touched down in the canyon and ripped through the trees like a drunk truck driver through fence posts. He reached back to check the strapped down cash box. It vibrated with the road’s surface but was still secure. Bandit looked ahead just as a squirrel darted into the lane.
Bandit’s mind knew exactly the reaction required. He couldn’t budge or panic. This was the luck of the draw coupled with the squirrel’s ability to make any sense of the situation and the thundering chopper flying in his direction. It was up to the squirrel to out run the chopper or make any evasive move. Bandit was a man on a mission. He held his track in the lane, albeit backed off his quick-throttle just a tad.
He had encountered enough harried obstacles for one day. This one would pass or fail and the squirrel held all his own cards. Squirrels are nimble, bushy-tailed rodents found all over the world. They belong to the Sciuridae family, which includes prairie dogs, chipmunks and marmots. This fast approaching, up to 20 mph, fury beast was about 10 inches in height, with eyes high on his or her head and placed on each side of the skull, so it had amazing peripheral vision to scope surroundings without turning its head. It knew what was happening and his padded feet allowed him or her to jump up to 20 feet.
Bandit hoped his front wheel would not create scattered bloody doom for the beast, but it was now or never for the buoyant animal entering his trajectory. Bandit’s front 21-inch Avon spun within a few, narrowing feet of the pudgy rodent’s fury body, the narrow oblong rubber patch slapping the pavement at over 50 mph. The squirrel’s soft fur became rigid, like a porcupine as he rocketed at top speed onto the asphalt, his eyes assessing this giant steel locomotive bearing down on him. His eyes brighten and seemed to flicker and suddenly the brown beast leapt over the entire oncoming lane into the shrubbery on the side of the road and disappeared.
Bandit took a sigh of relief and cranked up his throttle once more. The sun, in full bloom expanded the verdant colors of the forest and the steep canyon surrounding him. As he approached Cheyenne Crossing he could see riders pulling into the parking lot from every direction. He was delighted to witness brothers lined up to place orders at their bustling food truck.
He slid to a stop and made his way to the back of the truck where Maria met him, her dark Hispanic eyes as big as saucers. “We be back in biz, Mr. Bandit, sir.” Maria said and a broad smile filled her face. She bowed slightly as she took the box. “Thank you senor,” she said and turned to the inside of the spicy smelling, sizzling carnitas carriage.
Tina started taking orders and making change. Her long wavy auburn hair flicked in the oncoming sunlight behind the plexiglass screen. Her beauty and her gathered top revealed enough succulent cleavage that any horny rider would wait in line for 20 minutes just to look into her bright blue eyes, and into that top just to ask for a slice of lime. No wonder she had issues with guys.
They had less than four days remaining before the rally ended and they began their trek home. The financial count looked good and the line at the truck indicated another strong day. But what was happening with the Cantina on the coast? Bandit wondered and yanked his cell phone out of his vest. As he did it started to ring.
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“Yeah,” Bandit said.
“I’m not sure what’s going on,” Marko said. “LA had a Chinese Covid spike and the mayor wants to shut down restaurants again.”
“How are the finances?” Bandit asked, concerned. Everything hung in the balance. The truck pulled its end of the bargain so far, but just by a cunt-hair.
“We just pulled out of the last set-back,” Marko said, “But we need another good five days to make our goal.”
Bandit noted a pregnant pause in Marko’s usually hard-lined dialog. “What’s up?” Bandit said.
“There’s could be trouble in paradise,” Marko said. “I can’t put my finger on it, but we have some new customers and they are checking the place out.”
“Are they cops, thugs, thieves or gang members?” Bandit asked. “Is the restaurant locked down?”
“They could be cops or gangsters,” Marko said. “And yes, they can’t get inside the restaurant or anywhere near the safe.”
“So, what’s the issue?” Bandit said and Tina brought him a chip slathered in fresh guacamole and an ice-cold Corona with a slice of lime. He smelled the warm chip, and tried to think, and listen. He loved the smell and taste of fresh avocado, cilantro and onion with just the right spices. There was something so pure, clean and healthy about freshly made guacamole. He gobbled it down and Marko could hear the crunching on the other end of the line.
“Chips and Salsa?” Marko asked. “I will know more tonight.”
“Do you have the manpower to handle it?” Bandit asked. “You could call Zack or Rusty for back-up.”
“It’s mostly eyes on the targets,” Marko said. ?“Franky and Clay are helping watch who is coming and going.”
“Let’s talk tonight after closing,” Bandit said and hung up. He looked down as his dusty cowboy boots then up at the surrounding Jack pine trees on jutting mountainsides and listened to the motorcycles coming and going. He was in two-wheeled paradise.
His mind swirled with his day and thoughts of his conversation with Marko. It dawned on him what to do. He called a black bill collector from the Los Angeles inner city. Sammy hired by Los Angeles contractors needed to impress folks who owed them money.
“Yep,” Sammy said.
“It’s Bandit from Pedro,” Bandit said. “Would you like a free dinner and a quick conversation with one of my guys?”
“Does he owe you money?” Sammy said. He was sitting his dark ‘50s lathe and plaster garage under a single bulb doing curls with old rusty iron dumbbells. It reminded him of prison camps from his earlier days. He was surrounded by black tar paper and chicken wire.
“No,” Bandit replied. “I want you to give us the lowdown on a couple of guys who are scoping out the Cantina. Marko will point them out or maybe he won’t need to.”
“Sure,” Sammy said his face covered with years of violent scars. “I could use some of the Chinaman’s nachos and a margarita.”
“It’s all outdoors or take-away,” Bandit said. “But you might know what these bastards are up to.”
Sammy was no stranger to violence. He lived on the edge daily and violent threat escalation was his job. If a threat didn’t work, he had to know which move to make next and when. The key was to be intimidating, so the source knew where the wrong move would lead. It was all a card game but sometimes a life and death hand.
Sammy knew the risk factors and often encountered them from a skinny, unlikely source. The desire to fight came from all quarters, not just big strong guys. Once, he handled collections for a Jewish jeweler in the LA Jewelry district. This aging, bent over, wealthy jeweler and his family ran a whole high-rise floor in Downtown. They sold jewelry and high-dollar watches for half price, compared to Rodeo Drive or Melrose shops and malls. The U-shaped floor was scattered with office spaces built in the ‘50s and never upgraded, except electronically. They just pushed display cases into each office after removing the desks and set a family member up with a counter, a computer, a gadget for running credit cards and a printer for receipts.
One office was set up for wedding rings, the next for expensive Rolex, Omega and Quorum watches and the next for diamond bracelets or earrings. They posted a guard at the elevators but didn’t have many issues. They also used some offices for administration and storage. It was a maze of wood and tinted glass boxes and the senior members of the family were allowed window offices overlooking Los Angeles to the Hollywood hills and almost to the Port of LA.
Mr. Weinstein, at 78 began to bend from the effects of arthritis and looked like a short walking letter C. He was responsible for the books and watching the loans. They offered payment plans on many of their glistening items. That’s where Sammy came in.
If the customer started to run behind on his payments, one of the family female members would call to remind him or her, usually him. After a couple of months, a male member would make the call. At about six months Sammy would receive a report. It detailed the activity, the person’s response to calls, where they worked, lived, etc.
With the Wuhan Covid, there were special considerations and those were mounting. But Sammy was called more on the jilted lover who quit making payments on the flashy engagement ring. He went to see one kid and barely got out alive. The kid was pissed and that’s how big Sammy ended up with a nasty scar across the top of his previously broken nose.
Ultimately, Sammy won out and they were paid in full. Sammy finished his workout, showered and took care of a couple of calls on his way to the Port, 25 miles southwest of downtown. One was a Hispanic chef working a corner restaurant. He wasn’t jilted, just hurting and trying to keep his job in a Covid world. Sammy wasn’t just a thug. Very often he helped customers. In this case the kid had a lowered ’52 Chevy and Sammy helped him sell it, pay his debt and have some working capital to help him through the hard times.
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Sammy arrived at the Cantina just as the sun settled over the Harbor and the colors on the harbor became rich with the golden hue. Sammy spoke to Marko and was introduced to Franky and Clay. He took a seat outside in the farthest reaches of the temporary outdoor patio.
Frankie watched from the rooftop and texted Marko and Sammy when a suspicious sedan pulled into the parking lot and parked as far from the Cantina as possible. Franky tried his best to see the passengers, but the windows were tinted and he couldn’t make out anything until someone in the back seat lit a cigarette. The glow created a silhouette.
It was almost 45 minutes before anyone got out of the car. One of the passengers walked to the Cantina but walked around the building before coming to the order window. He was a big man in a gray trench coat and a fedora hat, which was completely out of place. Sammy looked the guy over. Then recognized the set-up. This guy was just a distraction. He knew this mob drill.
Four other men slinked out of the sedan and surrounded the Cantina. They all wore trench coats. A skinny bastard waited at the corner of the building and when Frankie exposed himself the guy yanked an AR-15 out of his coat and indicated for him to stand, unarmed.
The leader stepped up to the window. Obviously a thug with piercing eyes he ask to talk to Marko by name. “Tell him to leave his 9mm inside. Customers started to gather their food and head to their bikes and cars. Each member of this thug group flashed their automatic weapons and long arching 30-round magazines.
Marko came out the front door and approached the leader. Nasty looking, he didn’t have the stature to be much of a fighter. “Here’s the drill,” He sputtered at Marko. “There are bad folks moving into this neighborhood and we could help you out.”
“We usually handle our own problems,” Marko said, “and haven’t had any issues.” Marko assessed every aspect of this short pudgy thug. The guy seemed to be sweating. Marko would never go down without a fight.
“Get me ten grand by tomorrow night,” Slippery demanded. “Or you will be out of business.”
“We’re almost out of business now,” Marko said. “This Covid shit is kicking our ass.” The mayor was threatening to shut down even outdoor dining.
“You’ve got until midnight tomorrow,” Slippery muttered trying to intimidate Marko.
“What’s wrong,” Marko said. “All the Chinese laundries downtown had to close? This is the Port. We don’t back down.” Marko stared eyeball to eyeball with Slippery.
“I know Bandit is out of town and won’t be back for days,” Slippery said. “You don’t have your boss and you don’t want him to come back and find this place burnt to the ground.”
“Midnight,” Marko barked and spit on the ground in from of the bastard’s feet. He studied famous bullies including Mussolini the first fascist dictator of Italy. Even the baddest of the bad can be punked, Marko thought to himself as the slippery one sneered at Marko and the thugs returned to their vehicle. Mussolini was executed and Hitler committed suicide.
Marko seethed and waved as the car pulled out of the parking lot, taunting them. Sammy came to his side. “Relax brother, I’ll call Bandit and report in.”
The time zone called for an hour later in South Dakota. Bandit had just over 2.5 hours sleep when his cell phone rang. He mentally prepared for the call and crashed out early. His gang was highly successful and his day was a financial ass-kicker, but he loved the outcome, yet was constantly concerned about the headquarters on the coast.
The conversation was brief and Bandit sat up bolt upright and tossed his long legs over the side of his bed, as he slammed his cell phone on the bedstand. He glared out the window onto Lincoln street. The air was cool and still in Deadwood, but his mind contained a whirlwind of thoughts. He grabbed Tina, who shared his bed. “Wake up, goddammit,” Bandit said and pulled her naked slinky form onto his lap. “I’ve got 24.5 hours to get back to the Cantina and solve a problem or lose everything. We need to move. He kissed her deeply and crushed her chest to his. He could feel her begin to melt. “Let’s move,” he said jarring the moment.
“No more boyfriends, He said starring into her bright blue eyes. “You need to be responsible or die trying. Within 15 minutes he dressed and loaded his chopper for the long run home.
He slipped on thermal long johns, a t-shirt, heavy socks, denims, a thick hoodie sweatshirt, a 5-ball leather shirt and his vest, plus a knitted scarf around his neck, which he pushed into his leather shirt. He questioned everything? Did he have his cell phone, the charger, night glasses and shades, his wallet, enough cash, a lock, bike key, Cantina key, a flashlight, tools, rain gear, his folding Beretta knife, a map of Wyoming and the rapid list went on.
He carried a .38 snub nose pistol and a small leather bag of spare ammo. His Bandit’s bedroll was lightly packed with an extra change of clothes and his rain top, but no bottoms. He’d live with what he had on. And of course, he had two Bikernet Bandanas, one in his back pocket along with his knife and a spare in the bedroll with some Chapstick and a lighter, but no smokes. He hadn’t smoked in 30 years. Tina made sure he had a chilled bottle of water, a zip-lock bag or trail mix and a 5-hour energy drink.
He rolled the chopper and then coasted down the steep Deadwood town hill until he passed the first Casino and turned on the ignition , dropped the clutch lever and fired it to life with a brief chirp of the rear tire against the damp pavement made partially with historic stones and bricks. In a hot flash he turned left on highway 85 and hit the road south through Lead three miles away.
If he played it right, he would cut across 1,320 miles into Los Angeles. At night, he needed to traverse several two-laners across Wyoming without an encounter with another deer or a semi-truck load scatter in the road. Otherwise, the weather was clear.
