Photo from Wino Joe
Mandy and Nyla slithered into Bandit’s upstairs apartment as 3:00 a.m. struck a bell and Marko locked the joint down. He watched as the two voluptious asses ascended the stairway bouncing against each other with arms entwined. It was a sight so sensual that it would cause an irate warrior to hang up his saber.
Little Frankie, with the road map rough face, followed the two tough-guys to their van and watched as the primered, 30-year-old vehicle slithered onto the Vincent Thomas bridge and head back to the poor side of the Los Angeles Harbor, Wilmington. Wilmas (the street gang version) was the step child to the eight-mile long San Pedro waterfront compared to Wilmington’s 600 feet. Unlike progressive San Pedro, another suburb of Los Angeles, Wilmington was a third-world ghetto, of flat streets, methadone clinics, homeless assholes and thousands of 18-wheelers trying to find anyway to escape the port, through Wilmington, onto any open interstate.
Frankie reported the van and an all-clear to Marko then boarded his rusting 3-speed bicycle and headed home to a small single apartment that he shared with his ruffian teenage son. Marko checked the premises again, the doors, the empty parking lot and the patio. He buttoned the joint like a jailor and headed to the garage area and his studio apartment adjacent to it.
Marko often scored a horny babe from last call, but not tonight. Just the slipper visual of Mandy and Nyla squirming in Bandit’s over-sized tub was enough to give him tremendous satisfaction. He opened the door to his apartment, grabbed a cold Sam Adams from his fridge and a small bag of flour dough that he used for bait while fishing off the docks. He snatched a well kept rod and reel from his closet and a his high school tackle box. He opened one garage door and strung a 50 foot extension cord with a porcelain shrouded bulb to the edge of the dock and let it slide over the tar treated timbers, within 6 feet of the briny green moss-colored salt water that splashed against the dock. With all his gear in a plastic milk crate he set up his fishing operation on the edge of the asphalt and railroad tie structure and peered at the growing number of fish lured to the surface glow.
He baited the hook with a pea-sized gob of dough and dropped it in the water. Immediately Perch and Smelt bit the hooks and jerked the 5-pound test mona-filament line. Marko sipped his beer and gazed at the lights on the dark harbor, the rippling wake of a passing tugboat and the silhouettes of buildings in the distance. His peaceful time, he enjoyed the smell of salt, even diesel fumes, and the cool breeze from the water. He pondered his scooter, his recent women and the workout he planned for the following day. It was a good day at the Cantina, warm, fun, with a hint of adventure and a the slash of violence that he relished.
He enjoyed his time alone on the harbor’s edge pondering the meaning of life. He was nearly 45 and occasionally he challenged his goals, whether it was time to marry, have kids or settle down. Then he cracked open his second and last beer and decided it was all a bullshit society trap that he could easily avoid without flinching.
The air was still except for the rumble of cars over the sprawling Vincent Thomas, mini-Golden Gate, Suspension bridge. As he caught his third breakfast Perch a crack interrupted the stillness of the night.
Marko spun on the milk crate and simultaneously pulled his Browning 9 mm semi-automatic and chambered a round. He crouched down from the milk crate and moved to the side of the Cantina building and kept moving around the building until he could see the entire parking lot through the landscaped shrubbery. He suspected the dented, mid-70’s van, that Frankie described, was back somewhere.
According to every television show, every movie that takes up valuable time on the silver screen, Marko and Bandit’s security rules and guidelines were completely out of whack.
He’s aggressive, confident and out front. His belief encompasses take no prisoners and no second chances.
The sound of heavy breathing backed by the grunts of a man being pursued introduced Marko to the rattling of Frankie’s bicycle being pedaled for all it was worth. As Frankie turned into the parking lot another explosive crack cut the night’s stillness and the small, 50 year old, ex-drug addict, pedaling the bicycle, lost control and the bike spilled to the pavement with the van closing by 20 feet as it jumped the sidewalk, crushed Oleander bushes adjacent to the driveway and careened into the Cantina parking lot.
Marko, true to the Cantina Code fired, slamming a hollow-point round into the left headlight and another round into the tire below it. He let the driver know immediately that there were no distinctions between discussions and all out battle.
Frankie sprawled on the asphalt and rolled. The multi-faded-colored Van swerved and ran over Frankie’s only mode of transportation as he tried to muster the energy to crawl toward the building.
The vehicle sagged as the tire bled out and Marko thought about a lesson Bandit’s dad told him. The old man grew up in the oil fields and even as a slight 6 foot 2 inch man he never backed down to anyone, never hesitated before a fight and always fought to the death, or until the other man surrendered. No questions, if there was any element of a threat, the fight was on until further notice. With his first two rounds Marko let them know that the fight was initiated. He wasn’t there to discuss the issues.
Frankie’s bike crunched, like a boot against an aluminum beer can, under the lot’s fluorescent lights. Frankie rolled like a drunken sailor walks, weaved then fell over again and the old alcoholic passed out.
Marko shot out the other headlight and front tire. The old Ford Econoline van was disabled and smoking. Marko aimed a foot below the roof line a prepared to fire, but was interrupted by a shower of gatling gun fire that cut across the middle of the windshield and down the roof line of the commercial vehicle.
Marko heard police sirens wailing in the distance. The report was in.
“Don’t shoot,” A voice screamed from the opened side van door. The bullets from the second story of the Spanish building didn’t subside, but began to cut the vehicle in half with a swath down the center of the sheet metal roof. The radiator exploded and steam soared skyward. One badass jumped from the van and fired errantly at the building. Marko fired a round shattering his right kneecap, and the man screamed, dropped his weapon and collapsed.
The bullets continued to slam shattering the windshield between the seats up to the roof and down the center of the van’s body. Marko realized that return fire was bursting out of the windshield area against the building and he returned fire until it stopped.
Suddenly a dense quiet filled the area. Then three squad cars careened into the lot. Marko, blocked from the assailiants, shoved his pristine weapon, smoking from the action into an open area so the cops could see it. He stood up quickly and raised his hands.
Frankie lay face down on the asphalt scared shitless. He was wounded and bleeding. Cops dragged the dead biker out of the van and cuffed the wounded badass who screamed threats from the pavement.
Marko, who trained SWAT teams, military and terrorist units, had a vast array of licenses and credentials that were readily recognized and respected by the Harbor Police Unit, a division of the Los Angeles Police Department. He spoke to them in his usual, calm, professional manner. In 45 minutes the lot was clean, the coroner departed with the dead, the van towed and Frankie carefully loaded into an ambulance and taken to Harbor General. He would survive his gunshot wound and the street despot would have another wild story to tell his son.
Marko returned to the edge of the dock after retrieving another beer from his fridge. He deserved to break his two-drink maximum for the night.
As he took a swig and sighed he heard a heavy creaking from the back galley door and recognized solid footsteps heading his way.
“What the fuck,” Bandit said? He set down another milk crate, a bag of chips, a cup of the Chinaman’s salsa and another cup of warm refried beans cooked with slices of jalapenos. Bandit cracked open a Corona and pulled a drop line out of his denim pocket, baited it with Marko’s special dough and lowered the line into the water.
“Another wild night at the Cantina,” Marko said, “but what the fuck are you going to catch with that?”
“My depression era folks couldn’t afford high-dollar rods and reels,” Bandit said lowering the line slowly, one 4-inch rotation at a time, toward the water 15 feet below the surface of the dock. He had one handmade lead sinker on the line with one large corroded hook.
The big man’s dark nylon line fell in slow motion to the surface as Marko flicked his agile rod and yanked two more slithering Perch from their briny existence. “I don’t get it,” Marko said, “you own this joint why fish with that piece of shit?”
Bandit pulled on his graying goatee in the dim harbor lights and looked out at the glassy surface. “It’s not your tool but what you catch,” Bandit said.
“Patience, my son,” Bandit said with a wry smile as a massive car carrying ship obliterated their view, as if a monster had taken the harbor by surprise. The aircraft carrier sized vessel slid out of the harbor at five knots and barely made a sound except for the rumble of the following tug that controlled the steel monster’s speed.
An hour passed and Marko pulled an even dozen fish from the tainted, oily, sea water and tossed them into a bucket at his feet. He joyfully smirked at the lack of bites Bandit received in the traffic jam of slithering fish that scurried heartily below the mesmerizing surface warming light. “You haven’t caught shit,” Marko laughed.
“Hello handsome,” A voice said and the night air suddenly paused and mysteriously the last ship blocking the light departed and lights sparkled on the harbor like never before.
Marko went slack-jawed as she touched Bandit’s shoulder, he stood and the two embraced as if their romance was held at bay for years. Her features were fine youthful and true to her redheaded heritage. Her skin was as light as a feather with just a hint of freckles and he auburn eyes bore into Bandit’s as if they were fixed for the first time in years.
Her hair was more curvaceous than the soft ripples on the harbor, more colorful than the crimson clouds during a gorgeous sunset. When they kissed the lights on the harbor seemed to glow brighter, the drifting mist grew warmer. The night took on a dramatic mood, more powerful than bullets and the smell of gun powder. They fit, clutched each other with dire desire and Bandit’s right hand dropped to his side holding the drop line.
Marko instinctively grabbed the fishing tool and set it on Bandit’s rare wooden milk crate. He knew he should stand in the presence of a beautiful woman, but for some reason his knees failed to function. For what seemed hours, the couple held each other, then they broke and Bandit kissed down the underside of her soft chin to the nape of her neck and she looked down at Marko with misty eyes. “Goodnight young man,” she said in a whisper as they turned and walked arm in arm toward the Cantina.
Marko couldn’t believe his eyes. Then it dawned on him as he stood alone on the edge of the LA harbor,
Marko recoiled the drop line that didn’t catch a damn fish and tossed it on top of Bandit’s milk crate.
“That bastard,” he said and turned back to his cold bucket of perch.
