Marko fished off the dock under the Vincent Thomas Bridge. It spanned the wide channel between San Pedro and Terminal Island, which once housed the Long Beach Naval Base and still was home to the Terminal Island Federal Prison.
Bandit sat on a rusting galvanized bucket and tossed a line in the briny water.
“Just as we’re doing more business than ever, we need a new bartender,” Bandit said. “Have you had any luck?”
“I have a couple of candidates,” Marko said. “They’re scheduled for appointments in the morning after my workout.”
The next morning, Marko was out of his sack, pounding down a protein shake with fresh fruit and pumping iron in between Tae Kwon Do forms. He trained solid for an hour, scrambled a half-dozen egg whites, and hit the showers.
Marko lived the solemn life of a biker. He had a small two-bedroom apartment built in the back of the cantina garages, with one massive brass porthole overlooking the harbor in his bedroom. Marko and Bandit, pals for 25 years, trained constantly in close quarters combat. Highly intelligent, Marko read and studied constantly, but he kept his life simple, with one motorcycle, one pickup, and one broad a week. They never lasted.
Marko lived, surrounded by weapons, diving gear, hunting equipment, climbing gear, motorcycle parts, you name it. He was a member of the Los Angeles volunteer sheriff’s department dive team. Girls got the vibe soon and slipped away. He had no time for flowers and holding hands. He was a man on a constant mission for self-improvement.
Marko unlocked the massive Cantina oak doors at 8:30 a.m. and checked his watch. The first appointment was scheduled for 8:30, and then 9:00, and 9:30. He opened the door, but the lot was empty. He moved around the dining room and the bar, checking and detailing the tables. With several years of military behind him, discipline came naturally and cleanliness was a mainstay. Bandit, a Vietnam veteran, had similar attributes toward keeping the Cantina orderly and clean.
Just after 8:45, a disheveled compact skidded into the parking lot and a mussed blonde bounced out of the passenger door, rattling orders to the driver while puffing on a cigarette, which she yanked from her Botoxed lips and tossed on the asphalt, and then ground it into the pavement with her 6-inch high heel.
As she let out the final smoke breath and lifted her boobs to enhance her silicon cleavage, Marko slipped up beside her. “Hello, beautiful,” he said. “Are you Betty?”
She immediately beamed and said, “Yes, thanks.”
“You’re appointment was at 8:30,” Marko said, staring directly into her colored contact enhanced eyes. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, but my boyfriend got a DUI last night,” she said, losing her joyful blush. “He was late to pick me up.”
“My name is Marko,” Marko said extending his large paw. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m the manager and responsible for Cantina security. Unfortunately, I have another appointment in just a few moments, so I suggest you call this afternoon, if you want to schedule another appointment.”
“Can’t I wait?” Betty stammered, beginning to lose her cool.
“Sorry,” Marko said leaning down to retrieve the crushed butt on the freshly oiled asphalt. “That’s not how we handle Cantina business.” He handed her the tattered butt and guided her back into the bruised compact.
Ten minutes later at just five minutes before 9:00, a slick looking BMW coup rolled into the parking lot and parked. A tall brunette turned her rear-view mirror in her direction and checked her imaculate make-up. She looked as fine as any Vogue fashion model. She opened her delicate Louie Vuitton purse and pulled out a crystal vial with a platinum spoon. She delicately packed both shapely nostrils, inhaled and checked the mirror once more for any left-over residue.
At exactly 8:58, she swung two long shapely legs out of the pristine interior and planted them on the pavement. She turned back toward the interior of the detailed metallic vehicle and retrieved a hand-tooled leather sheath containing her impressive resume. She stood tall, around 5-foot 6-inches, and from her Rolex watch to the delicate gold chain around her right ankle, she was put together like a fine-tuned sport scar.
She walked directly at the front door sizing up every element of the Cantina, from landscaped areas scattered with palms and Birds of Paradise plants, to the Spanish tile roof and well-kept woodwork around the arched windows. As she approached the tiled entry way, the large oak doors swung open and Marko stood in the center. An imposing man over 6 foot 2 inches, he approached her with his hand out.
“Hi, Christine,” Marko said, stopping her before she could enter the dining room.
“Hi,” Christine said. “Nice of you to remember my name.”
“You look like a million bucks,” Marko said, steering her away from the doors.
“Thanks,” Christine said trying to look into the interior. “Aren’t we going inside?”
“We can’t,” Marko said, “not now. But it’s an absolutely beautiful morning on the harbor.”
Christine turned and refocused on the harbor and the massive China Shipping cranes loading a container ship across the channel.
“I’m not sure I understand,” Christine said, trying to bring the conversation back around to the job interview.
“Do you know what would happen to this business, if the owner knowingly allowed someone to bring drugs inside?” Marko said. “He could lose his livelihood and we would all be out of jobs.”
“But…” Christine stammered.
“Say no more,” Marko said and held out a card to her for a Narconon mentor. “If you call this guy, he could save your life.”
“I don’t need this shit,” Christine snapped and pushed the card away.
Marko grabbed both of her arms and pulled her within and inch of his nose. “But you needed a blast before a job interview,” Marko said directly into her dilated eyes. “I don’t even know you, but I’m trying to save your life. It’s up to you.” He took the card and shoved it into her costly blouse, spun her around and aimed her at the car. “How long is this bullshit going to last?”
The high-dollar wind slipped from her satin sails and her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry,” she said and returned to her flashy car.
Marko took a breath, returned to his apartment and washed his hands and face, to separate himself from the smell of her expensive perfume with the hint of cocaine. “Damn,” he said to himself and walked out to the pier. He kept a handful of sand-honed stones on the tar soaked beams on the edge of the dock. At high tide, he liked to test his ability to skip a stone across the calm harbor seas. The soft stones felt soothing and peaceful in his hands.
“Should we bet on skips or distance?” Martha asked.
“You’re early,” Marko said without missing a beat. He was startled at her proximity without his awareness, but he didn’t let on.
“I’m supposed to be early and adept if I want a job, right?” Martha said.
For the first time, Mark turned to face his last applicant for the day. She was dressed like someone who had come to work. She was sharp looking and sorta voluptuous, but cut some. She looked strong and in shape.
“Do you work out?” Marko said.
“Yes, and I run marathons,” Martha said. “Can I toss one of those flat stones? I love the feeling of them in the palm of my hand, sort of soothing, like a polished jade ring.” She handled the stone like a Catholic handles a crucifix, with tenderness and respect. “Well?”
“Number of skips,” Marko said and watched her move with athletic grace, yet a slight bounce and her ass was as fine as a ripe peach. He couldn’t help but to check her physique. She stepped to the edge of the pier and put one foot on the short railing, leaned back and with hardball pitcher accuracy let the flat stone rip. It seemed to have a mind of its own, as if it was programmed. Throwing stones at sea level is ideal, but not from a pier where the stone must drop 15 feet to the wet surface and level out, then dance across the mild harbor chop.
Her stone did exactly was it was supposed to do. It glided, spinning on a direct trajectory toward the deep green, and then leveled out just a foot off the surface. Then like stripper hanging from a pole and rhythmically snatching dead presidents off the deck, this stone tasted one swell crest after another while she counted aloud. “One, two, three, four,” she said with sincere joy like a kid hitting her first home run.
By the time she reached seven, she was giddy with excitement, then the stone was interrupted by a powerboat’s wake and it dove to the murky depth after nine skips. That had to be almost a world record.
Marko tried to hide his impressed demeanor. He drew back his heavily muscled arm and let his stone rip. The torque from his sidearm gesture caused Martha’s eyes to open as his stone whistled toward the surface of the water and leveled out against the first swell. It smacked it like a harsh slap in the face and traveled 25 feet before it clipped another swell and began to dance across the water as if had been shot from a cannon.
They both counted as if the contest winner would drive home in a new Cadillac Escalade. Marko’s stone trajectory was more direct and forced. It smacked waves as if it was pissed off and determined. Unfortunately, at seven skips it lifted airborne and knocked a sailboard surfer off his long board mid-channel.
“Damn,” both of them said simultaneously.
“We better take this interview inside,” Marko said and turned Martha by the elbow and they both strolled toward the front door.
“Your last job lasted over ten years?” Marko asked.
“Yeah, it was a good one, but management changed,” Martha said. “I couldn’t deal with some of the bullshit. A bar job is more than a paycheck, it’s a family.”
They sat at a dining room table and spoke about training and job responsibilities. “How long was the last bartender on the job?” Martha asked.
“Over 14 years,” Marko said. “She hooked up with some guy who owns another joint at the other end of the harbor. She’s supposedly buying into an ownership position. It’s a helluvan opportunity, if it works.”
“Good for her,” Martha said. “Is there any bad blood?”
“I don’t suspect any,” Marko said. The interview was rolling along splendidly, but Marko knew better than to be too optimistic. “I would like you to come back Friday morning for another interview, and if you don’t have prior commitments, if you pass the next interview, I would like you to come in and work the bar for an hour Friday night with Brad, our young new bartender.”
“I’ll make a point to have the time available,” Martha said.
“Before you leave, I want to ask you one more question or maybe a couple,” Marko said. “Do you have family encumbrances? And if there is any issue that would cause us to pause, what would it be?”
“I’m a widow, and single currently,” Martha said. “I was married once a long time ago, but my husband was killed in Iraq.” She paused and Marko noted the strain in her face.
“I spent several years in Afghanistan,” Marko said. “I’m sorry for you loss.”
“Regarding the other part of your question, there is one thing,” Martha said. “I have a teenage son. He’s beginning to have a tough time in school, and occasionally he becomes an issue. Being a single mom can be a chore.”
“We understand,” Marko said. “We treat the Cantina as a large family, and hopefully he will respect that.”
“I hope so,” Martha said standing and extending her hand to Marko. “Who is ‘we’?”
“The boss Bandit tries to take care of this clan,” Marko said. “You’ll ultimately meet him. You’re final interview will take place in his office.”
“I’ll give it my best shot,” Martha said, walking toward the door. As they stepped into the sunlight, the roar of a Sportster entered the parking lot. It was little Tina arriving early for work. She pulled into the motorcycle-only area and kicked down her kickstand. She was such a tight little form in skin-tight pants.
She was the perfect size, at less than 5 feet, for a Sportster 48 and fit it like a glove. As she dismounted her handbag was laced over her shoulder with a leather strap. Out of the corner of Marko’s perihelia vision he spotted a bicyclist whipping over the curb and into the parking lot as if on a mission.
The peddling fool timed his assault perfectly, as if he had watched Tina ride into the parking lot daily, dismount and take her satchel off her shoulder. She no more than lifted the strap from small delicate deltoid, than the skinny speed freak on the 10-speed snatched it and sped toward the exit.
Marko instinctually reached for his Glock 9mm pistol, but knew better. Martha also spotted the cyclist making a move and looked around. She eyed Frankie’s push broom, spun the wooden handle free and threw the wooden rod like a javelin at the kid.
Suddenly the front wheel of the bicycle locked against the forks and the kid launched over the bars toward the coarse pavement. Marko was on the assailant as he tried to jump to his feet, scuffed with road rash. He pulled Tina’s satchel free and kicked the kid in the ass. He went down hard against the asphalt. “Don’t come around here again,” Marko said and the kid scrambled to his feet, grabbed his battered bike and ran for the street.
Marko looked at Martha. “Nice move,” he said. “Experience with a javelin?”
“Not much,” Martha said, slipping into her
Ford pickup and rolling the window down. “Just enough.”
“What did you think?” Frankie said, retrieving his broom handle.
“Damn, she passed with flying colors,” Marko said.
