Sin Wu was the best looking Asian high-dollar hooker on the coast or even in Vegas. But there was so much more to this woman aside from the looks. Bandit and Sin Wu went way back. They hooked up in San Francisco when Bandit rolled through on his stretched Shovelhead for the first time.
Fresh from China, Sin Wu couldn’t speak much English and needed a big white guy to look after her. Bandit, just moving through, wasn’t about to mess with the Hells Angel-controlled Fisherman’s Warf area, but he could watch her back.
Locked in each other’s arms, they bounced around town, but Bandit needed to return to Los Angeles and she wanted to see Hollywood, natch. The strong chemistry between them became a lasting bond as she packed on the back of his long chopper to Santa Barbara, where she boarded a train for Hollywood. Bandit stuck along the jagged coast to San Pedro where he ended up.
“What’s with the bruise?” Bandit asked.
“I’ve found myself hooked to a rough crowd,” Sin said and her dark eyes met Bandit’s with a stern gaze.
“Why don’t you part this relationship?” Bandit asked.
“It’s not simple,” Sin said, “but I’m working on it.” She made light of the encounter, but body language lingered with the big guy.
“Stay in touch,” Bandit said. “You know I’ll always do what I can.”
She nodded, winked and strolled gently out of the Cantina to everyone’s chagrin. During one of their previous encounters, she introduced Bandit to Buddhism. He enjoyed the comforting philosophy and studied it some. Through Buddhism, he met meditation. It all seemed to make sense.
After she left, Bandit made a call to an outlaw from Hesperia, Terry the Tramp. For 27 years, he ran a national organization of loose outlaws, but he had a gambling problem and lost his stature, but not his connections.
“Mr. Tramp,” Bandit said. “Would you let me know of any group running Asian hookers, who might not be the greatest guys?”
“Sure, you bet,” Terry said and hung up.
Business struggled for the old outlaw who still looked after his son, even while his heart failed numerous times. Terry loved motorcycles and continued to build them, even when the doctors ordered him not to ride.
Without his leadership, the club faltered and fell into disarray. Terry held to a code preventing club wars and he put his life on the line several times to stop conflicts. The code slipped away with the new leadership and the organization he loved went to war with more than one group.
Brothers started to die, shot from their bikes or stabbed in bars. Law enforcement began to breathe heavily on various chapters and ultimately many of the new leaders were jailed. Brothers returned to Terry’s side for advice and to beg for his leadership.
“I’ll pass,” Terry said every time, but he stayed in touch with the factions and chapters.
A couple of nights later, Bandit received a call on a Friday afternoon as the Cantina crew prepared for a busy weekend. “How’s biz?” Terry asked.
“Good, it’s always good on weekends,” Bandit replied.
“I ran across something,” Terry said, “and it’s in your back yard, a Wilmington Marina, Pacific something. These bastards think they are tough. They’re not. They’re feeding on the weak and women. They are heading down the wrong road, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ll take it from here,” Bandit said. “Thanks.”
He knew the redhead the manager at the Pacific Marina. The place was overrun with drunks, drug addicts, mental deviants and destitute sons of bitches who thought they could live on small sailboats cheaply. Otherwise, the larger boats were owned by rich and hardworking sorts who enjoyed weekends or infrequent getaway visits and sailing adventures.
But the 10 percent miscreants kept the redhead bobbing and weaving between thieves, cops, and social workers, with eviction notices, lien sales, and drunken negotiations. One beautiful woman from a wealthy family who grew up in the party world became a drunk and recently her old man drank himself to death. The family gave his 42-foot sailboat to the laundry lady, the marina code for her.
It was her chance to own a boat, have a place to live and straighten up her act. But there was no way to escape her desire for booze, a too frequent story. Bandit knew a couple of guys who lived on boats and roamed the seedy docks in Wilmington. One was a welder who quit coming around. He believed the earth was flat and the government was out to get him. He barely got by on his pay. He avoided any responsibilities, registrations or any connection to the government.
Bandit reached out but the rider wouldn’t talk to him. “The earth is flat and NASA is the devil’s organization,” Mr. Bead said and hung up.
There were plenty of others in the Marina, but Bandit wanted to stay away from club connections. There were Vagos, Hells Angels and even old Outlaws living on boats in Los Angeles. He reached out to a couple of old salts and bikers in the area and asked them to keep an eye out for party boat action.
Shit started to float to the surface.
Sin woke up with a start, on a bright sunny California day in her upscale, Long Beach, high-rise, apartment. The sun streamed in her vast floor-to-ceiling windows and she could see the Pacific Ocean and ships entering the expanding Port of Long Beach.
Conflicted, she wished she could have stayed with Bandit in San Pedro, but her deep respect and love for the man tore her from involving him in her current plight, but her options were slim. She moved her alabaster-toned legs over the side of the bed and buried her delicate features in her hands.
Her looks had no bearing on her mental form or street issues. She could look like a million bucks, but a sharp blade could remove all life from her features in a second and it might be pending.
She liked the taste of another woman from time to time and recently in Vegas met a delicious blonde with skin so soft it took her to a new level of nirvana. They had so much fun together, making love in the pools, apartments, customer homes, wherever she could remove the voluptuous blonde’s dress and taste her flesh.
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Sin smiled slightly as the thoughts of Shirley the magnificent, streamed through her consciousness. They spent whole weekends lost in each other’s arms and Sin felt like she had truly died and gone to heaven.
It was the most magnificent summer of Sin’s life, but then one day she received a call for a job. She bopped in the door of a luxury Vegas home, knowing Shirley would be a part of the action to discover her key to sensual bliss tied to a chair. A bruiser in a dark slick suit grabbed Sin, squeezed her arm hard and shoved her into the living room.
Another large thug stood beside Shirley. They were obviously working Shirley over. Another gangster type in a white silk suit sat on the deep, fluffy couch. Sin stiffened.
“Your friend fucked up,” Fred said. “She ripped us off for over a pound of cocaine.”
Sin played in this park for almost a decade. She looked around the room, at the thugs and back to the dealer, Freddie.
“So, what’s the deal, Freddie?” Sin said. “Generally, under these circumstances, if true, she would be buried in the desert by now.”
Freddie, a skinny sort, with slimy skin, even in air-conditions spaces, twitched slightly. “You could save her life,” Freddie said and fumbled with a cigarette. “I take it you were pals in more ways than one.”
“Well?” Sin asked dryly. “What’s the bottom line?”
“I want you to do me a favor on the coast,” Freddie said. “If you handle it, she will be good as gold.”
Shirley looked up at Sin. she was bruised, bleeding from her mouth and one eye was swollen shut. Petrified, a tear ran out of her good eye.
Sin knelt beside her chair and kissed her cheek. “I’ll take care of it,” she said.
Shirley strained against her bindings and shook her head.
Sin stood and looked at Freddie. “When I return, she better be healthy, happy and look like a million bucks.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Freddie said and lit another cigarette. He was a low-life drug dealer and a pimp from Detroit.
Sin sensed from his body language and the situation something slipped afoul. Shirley wasn’t in trouble, he was. And he wanted her and Shirley to handle it. That could be very bad news. The deal could be a ruse, or a deadly trick bag, depending on how much trouble Freddie faced.
Her first visit on the coast was to see Bandit, but she hesitated to tell him much.
Sin could take care of herself. She didn’t like the notion of involving Bandit, but Shirley meant the world to her and she needed some back-up. He was the only person on the planet, she could trust, truly trust. Her cell phone rang her business exchange.
“Hello,” she said tentatively.
“Is this the girl who will make all of our dreams come true?” The voice was rough and stern.
“I always give it my best shot,” Sin responded.
“Shot is the word,” the voice answered. “We are having a party on a boat in the Pacific Marina this weekend and you will be the star of the show.”
“Text me the info and I’ll be there,” Sin said.
“Will do, and this one’s on you, right?” the voice almost giggled.
“If you say so,” Sin said. “I’m here to please.”
She hung up and called Bandit. It was Wednesday and they had until Saturday to make sense of this issue. “I may need your help on a couple of fronts,” Sin said and explained.
Bandit hung up and called Terry.
“You know our guys tried to take over the Vegas drug trade. There’s been nothing but problems,” Terry said.
“Is there a member out there you can trust?” Bandit asked.
“Yeah, one,” Terry said. “He’s a nomad and stays out of the action. His name is Smokes. I can hook you up.”
“Perfect,” Bandit said.
He called Marko into his office. “We’re up against a deadline. I need to ride to Vegas. I need you to keep an eye on Sin Wu. She’s in a jam.”
