A Cocktail Mix Of Sexual Tension And The Wrong Lines
It was a strange off-color night. The Cantina was packed with mostly bikers, a couple of service men, and longshoremen. The night was cool, although summer was lurking around the bend. There was a fog building on the harbor like bad news to a brother with the blues.
Riders roamed in from time to time, mostly locals. The locals in San Pedro didn’t ride Evolutions. Strange, but most of them rode Shovels and Pans–about 50/50. There was one brother with a full beard and long dark hair who rode an Indian rat bike. He had no voice due to cancer. He talked, but only scratchy sounds spewed out, like kicking a bike that would never start. His bike was black, some parts with paint, others covered in grease–except for his tall apes and sissybar.
Pedro was a peculiar place. If you rode to a bike joint in Long Beach, Carson, Torrance, or Redondo Beach, the place would be packed with Evos and Twin Cams, but not Pedro. There weren’t many franchise joints in town either. The whole berg on the point sticking out to sea was old school. The night was calm enough. There were no drive-bys, no hotheads in the bar, or relationship upheavals. Jimbo and Tina had become a pair. There was something in the air though, and Marko could feel it. He didn’t perceive romance. He had no driving sensation that trouble floated in the air, but there was something. And he counted the minutes till closing time. It was after midnight, and at 1:45 he would instruct Nyla to announce last call. He couldn’t wait. He even appraised his own feelings. He was cool, he thought. He was actually looking forward to Saturday and fishing on the dock in the morning, riding to the Lighthouse Cafe for a breakfast of ham steak and apricot preserves. It made him lick his lips just to think about a Lighthouse breakfast.
Indian John had been down for a couple of months. He lived on Medicare. His Indian was his only possession. He stayed close to town except on rare occasions, like the time Bandit took him into the city to be in a Rod Steward video. His bike was repaired and on the road once again, and he was all smiles, if you could only see his teeth behind his dark mustache that buried both lips. He was a grubby sort, but loveable, and Marko respected the man.
Nyla was smiling, but something lingered behind her upbeat demeanor. She was horny. Bandit was out of town, but she felt odd about starting up anything with Mandy. There was that old adage: “Never shit in you own back yard.” It rumbled through her like the sound of a scolding parent. She couldn’t let anything come between her and Bandit, although she wasn’t absolutely sure he would care. He drifted in and out like the tides in the harbor. She looked at Mandy’s waves of red hair and that nice round ass calling to be fondled. She felt her hands itch as she dried them after scouring Margarita glasses in the deep sink. She realized the drive in a man for sex when she tried women. She admitted to herself that women were wonderful under the sheets, but she needed a girl who didn’t share the job site with her. Mandy was checking her out and that made it even worse. Those green eyes sparkled with lust.
“Can I get a goddamn beer,” Tommy barked across the bar, bringing Nyla back to reality. “What’s got you doe-eyed on a Friday night?” “I wish,” Nyla said, reaching for Tommy’s regular: Bud light. Tommy was a pot-bellied beer drinker who had a birthday comin’ up in a couple of weeks.
“I’m startin’ the celebration tonight,” he announced earlier in the evening. He went through beer like a mid-’60s muscle car gobbles gas. Half his front teeth were absent, the other jagged, but he had long thick sandy brown hair pulled in a ponytail and a full gray and sand-colored beard. He wasn’t half bad looking until he smiled. Nyla handed him the beer and held her hand out for the cash. “But it’s my birthday,” Tommy said. “Not for two weeks,” Nyla said, boldly indicating for Tommy to ante up the coin. He paid, grumbled, and wandered off. He would have enjoyed running his callused paw down the front of Nyla’s loose blouse, but she was off limits.
Marko wandered to the front door and pushed it open as two girls jumped out of a mid-’70s Chrysler. He shook his head thinking to himself that the girls were losers. The car was faded, the vinyl top peeling. He opened the door for the girls who giggled and nudged one another. He recognized immediately their elevated state of alcohol consumption. The girls had no business driving. They bumped into one another, stumbled, and yet survived the entrance. Marko took a quick lap around the parking lot. He was intrigued by one of the girls, a saucy brunette who was tall and thin like Olive Oil in a mini-skirt. She had muscular arms and cut legs from working out. He didn’t see many workout freaks in the Pedro neighborhood. As he marched passed their car, he got a glimpse of a preschool on four wheels. The car was packed stem to stern with toys, games, and clothes for toddlers. It was a fuckin’ mess. He shook his head and questioned. It couldn’t belong to the trim, tight brunette with long straight dark hair pulled into a ponytail.
Marko walked quickly back to the bar and pulled the big front door open. Rock ‘n’ roll spilled out into the parking lot. Folks were dancing, grinding their drunken selves into one another. He scanned the saloon and dining room with hurried professionalism until he found the two new patrons. As he stepped forward, the one with the narrow shape, little tits, well-formed ass, and protruding triceps turned and her sky blue eyes met his. She knew instantly that he was a man who trained regularly. She tried to look back at the bar, but her eyes remain affixed to his.
Marko walked toward her with his machismo confidence. “Who’s driving?” he said in a deep, direct tone.
“I’m not, but I should be,” the tall one said directly.
“What are you drinkin’?” Marko asked.
“Water with lemon,” she said, holding up her glass to the big man for inspection.
“Name’s Marko,” he said and held out his hand. “Ditch the drunk and spend the night with me.”
“She’s my sister, asshole,” she blurted angrily. “and it’s her birthday.” She ignored his hand and turned back to the bar. “The name is Marge.”
He wasn’t a man of smooth considerate lines, but she did offer her name.
