Cherry Ave.

The Samoan was a huge guy, he could be an entire island. No doubt he got the name from where he was born. A lot bigger when in front of you in real life. He was all mass and indigenous fire. He deserved the name. He had the appetite to go with it.

I watched him unwrap his burger from a joint on Pacific, The Teri-Yaki, a well-known Hawaiian burger shack. He held it in his giant hands, a $13 quarter pound double that was nowhere near small. I watched him take a bite and it came out with an extra bit of pineapple and egg yolk. The thing looked like a slider compared to his head.

We had been sitting at the shack for fifteen minutes shooting the shit until the food came. He checked if it was all there, and we went to a nearby park to talk real business. I watched a piece of egg white fly from his mouth as he spoke.

“There’s no way we get it in through the river, Espada” he said, “LAPD has eyes all over it. My cousins would be swarmed in a heartbeat.”

“I’m not taking the chance again,” I said. “If Cook wants me to send the AK’s up north, I have to go through your territory, right?” I said this as if he knew it because he sure as shit did.

“You know how often one of us gets confused for you?” He said, annoyed. “We get pulled over, and they tell us we fit the bill, brown and greasy. So you must be down with the biker brothers down the way.” He put on his best white cop accent.

I bit my tongue about the Mexican comments. I had my hands on my leather cut, pulling it down like I was cold. I wasn’t. I was able to pull from the shoulder holster if necessary.

“Take it through the industrial district, it’s crawling with renovations anyway.” I said.

“Times is rough, you want my boys to stick they neck out, I charge double.” He had put the burger down now. Meat flopped over the side of it as he pointed at me. Lecturing me.

“Double if you get it done by Saturday,” I said.

I wasn’t taking any of this from him today. It was too early, and I was already late to the club meeting. I looked over to the ocean as the Samoan spoke, running me through details I already knew and didn’t need to hear again.

He had resumed eating the burger. His temples flexed with each bite, and the hot California sun reflected off of his bald head as he spoke.

“Time management is the thing your club doesn’t understand,” he said. “I need to think of the livelihood of my business.”

These guys were all the same. They had the muscle but lacked brain. Brawn but no strategy to back it up. Excuse after excuse.

I told him ”You have cases of Ak’s, Uzis, hell, I was able to pick up a G-11 for some Russian out in Michigan. They don’t even make those nowadays.”

This was an achievement in our profession. To get the stuff not only across state lines but across country? What did he know about this? He ran it the same as booze and weed. His boys were careless and lost more than one shipment before. I was taking a risk myself even coming to The Samoan.

“That shit is fancy but if it don’t come cheap to you, it sure don’t come cheap to me. We been at this a long time, Cuz,” he said. He punched my shoulder softly; I felt the power behind it. “I need a guarantee. The heat come down on me, you need to be ready to move.”

He scarfed down the last of his burger and scrunched up the wrapper.

“Look here,” he told me, gesturing to the ocean waves just past the concrete steps he was sitting on. “That shit is your territory, untamed, wild.” He took a breath, exaggerating the freshness of the air as if to prove his point. He nodded his head back, and we turned around. “This is mine.”

There was a beat up liquor store with a homeless man out front. The street sloped upwards, bringing in the trash from the city with every gust. The smog betrayed the crisp ocean scenery that was now behind us. He pointed to a giant chromed out Jeep parked on the sidewalk near the liquor store.

“Betsy over there will tell you, it don’t come easy here,” he said.

I had heard this so many times I wanted to gag. I needed action. I had a job to do and people expecting big boxes of goods. I didn’t need some intermediary confused thinking he was worth more than he was. A police unit drove by, the cop inside sizing us up before driving off.

“You run the guns, you get paid.” I said it with finality. The next time I said it wouldn’t be so calmly.

He looked up, mulling options in his head that he didn’t have. He had nothing to negotiate with and he knew it.

“Sure thing, Brudda,” he said finally. “Meet us east of the old gorge off Antelope.” I was familiar with the highway and already had three brothers in mind for the ride there. I nodded in agreement.

The Samoan threw his trash in one bag and scrunched it up and left it there. He stood, his feet thudding on the concrete. I straightened up from the railing I was leaning on and walked to the sidewalk. I parked the bike a few blocks back. I didn’t mind the walk, hell, I minded it less than the possibility of ATF on my ass.

He followed me until we were close to the jeep and then broke off, the vehicle beeping as he pressed the key. We nodded to each other, and he turned the big block engine on. The custom job sang like a beauty and rumbled under my feet. I nodded with approval, and he pulled off with a smug smirk and a peace sign.

I stuck my hands in my pockets and began my stroll down the highway. I didn’t like dealing with the Samoan. Something just didn’t sit right with me about this deal. I needed to keep it to myself and put the club first. Morgan Cook, our Club President, handpicked the Samoan for the job this time. The reasons unknown to me, I just did my part and set the deal.

I sat on my bike and turned it on. The black and chrome body radiated heat from sitting in the sun. I adjusted the mirror on the Ape Bars, put my helmet and glasses on and pulled off. After the club meeting, it was time for a long run. off to the Antelope.

Once a month I’m obligated to broker a deal for the club on the armaments side of things. I go up and down the state mostly, with occasional cross-country trips. It’s some good side money for willing volunteers. A little security in case any other products take a hit from rival clubs, legally or otherwise.

This is where the Samoan came in. For some reason out of three established gun runners in the state, Cook wanted him on the cutting room floor. Now I have to put myself and three experienced riders together with some random guys we didn’t even know. Kids who had itchy trigger fingers and hard-ons for confrontation. That didn’t fly well around me. I was trying to avoid the attention they bring.

The next day, I rode my widebody Harley down the beach highway. I had to travel an hour to get to Long Beach. That’s where Hector Loose Leaf’s shop was, off of Cherry Avenue. He was the unofficial club mechanic, off the books. He tinkered with engine problems and the Club paid his shop’s rent. Our bikes were our lives, but if there was some business or a court date, he’d set you right while you did what you had to.

Loose Leaf was good, really good. I stood in the shop, it almost looked like a bike museum. Bikes on either side that were in progress with tarps under them and cleaned and polished pieces and tools beside them. There was a neat walkway cleared through the middle of the shop for access to all the bikes. He could take apart and clean your engine, swap for new parts and he even had painters and detailers on call.

He had vintage and out of commission bikes hanging overhead by chains. The chains were lightly rusted by prolonged exposure to the salty sea air, but the bikes were pristine. He walked in while I was admiring an old looking one with a beige tin.

“1927,” he said. Arching his neck to look up. “Took me an arm and a leg to get.”

He bumped my fist and walked towards the back of the shop. “Luis Espada, in my shop.” He said. “I forgot to roll out the red carpet.”

Loose Leaf was a small cholo kid from the east side. About twenty-seven. He was full of fire though. wasn’t a club boy but he fought like one. When we found out how good he was with bikes, there was no way out for him. Luckily, it had been a dream of his since he was a kid.

His father was a mechanic back in the day, he would work on my dad’s and Uncle’s bikes and a few other members. As a whole he disapproved of the club and forbade his son from riding or working on bikes. That changed when the old man passed, about 15 years ago. The kid went through his share, Juvie and community service, but managed to build a successful shop despite all of that.

I followed as he walked towards the garage door at the back wall. He pulled the chain down in a hurried, practiced motion and the door went up. We were greeted by the gray gloom of the overcast sky. His shop was up against a concrete drainage outlet that lead from the LA river on the right and to the ocean on the left. I peered over the edge, with no rainwater drainage it was about a 12-foot drop.

“You weren’t kidding,” I said. “Big enough to fit a boat.”

He stood beside me, nodding in agreement. “I was thinking about getting a floating hot tub, you know? Chain it to the side and wait for the water to come through.”

“Your Modelos would pop the tub,” I said. The thought was comedy.

We were waiting on the suppliers. The guns had to make a long journey to get here. A lot of them from Europe or Africa. Think Russia, Germany, Bosnia. After they leave port, they are gathered by bribed workers, put into a big storage container and sent to Mexico. The Cartel brings it here through T.J. and we call it a day.

Everyone pays for protection on their end. we get kickback for the deals and the Cartel gets first pick of the unclaimed guns while they’re still in Mexico. It was a symbiotic exchange that kept us alive for decades. Now it was getting trickier with the Hawaiians pushing shipments through the city though.

“How do you feel about these new kids? The Samoan’s boys?” I asked Loose Leaf.

“Don’t trust them fools any way you cut it,” he said. He had started to roll a cigarette. Silver Line brand loose leaf tobacco was all he used. He cursed under his breath as some sprinkled to the floor.

“I don’t either,” I said. “It’s one thing to have heat when its ours, but they’re getting out of hand.” I put my hand out to accept the cigarette he offered me.

He had already rolled two and lit them, I didn’t even see him start the second one. I took a drag as he spoke.

“Memo’s boys are already talking about coming over the border, show them some manners.” Loose Leaf said.

He practically shivered at the thought as he exhaled smoke. Memo Barbosa was a top lieutenant of the Colonia Cartel. They had become a player in Mexico’s bloody street wars about three years ago. Picture military armaments and gear, a near unlimited black budget and a shit ton of Mezcal and then give it to the vilest bastards you know. This was Barbosa’s cartel.

I nodded, accepting this possibility. “I wouldn’t mind them learning a lesson,” I said.

“We would be in the crossfire of that lesson,” Loose Leaf said. The kid had a head on him, that was for sure.

“I know,” I said. “A boy can dream. I’m just getting tired of Bob’s Big Boy acting like he’s the only one taking a risk.”

Loose Leaf laughed and said, “He would probably eat the burger before he could even hold it up.”

We laughed at the thought of the Samoan being a burger mascot, then we heard an engine rev out front.

“Your boys are here,” he said. Loose Leaf threw his half-smoked cigarette into the drainage outlet, and I did the same. It was go time.

Two big, bearded bikers walked in from the front of the shop. They were Dressed in all leather and smelling like smoke and diesel. I’m about six feet, but these dudes, Steiner and Estevez, had to lower their heads to enter the garage. We all greeted each other and walked back to the open garage door.

Steiner looked over the edge and to the left, where the outlet lead to the ocean. I had chosen him and Estevez because they knew gun running well, and the highways up to NorCal even better. I would rather have them by my side than anyone else while dealing with The Samoan.

They had just accepted two more cigarettes from Loose Leaf when Estevez looked down the outlet and said “Mira,” in Spanish in a Gruff voice.

We all looked over and saw a small black blip about three miles away. The Cartel was coming with the shipment. I don’t know how they got it stateside, and we always assumed they brought it through boats and then let it loose at shore. They delivered the guns in a military submersible vehicle. I don’t mean a submarine, but like a hovercraft and a tank combined.

This thing was silent and barely shook as it sped over the small debris in the outlet. It stopped directly under the garage door, and a metal hatch on the top opened up. You could see the makeshift welding around the hatch. Steiner leaned over and grabbed a giant black case. It looked like a small coffin with grips.

The cartel used these impact proof fiberglass containers for drugs and weapons. They each held about twenty rifles or fifteen launchers, and dozens of handguns if those were all you packed. The cases were sleek and avoided x-ray and metal detectors. It made everyone’s jobs easier.

I don’t know how big the interior of this hover tank was, but we pulled out thirty-two of those cases in minutes. Me and Loose Leaf grabbed the final case and set it down beside the others. The hatch closed and the vehicle reversed. Its ends were both identical and could go forward and back without even turning around.

The Cartel vehicle was long gone by the time the Hawaiians pulled up. They came in a large black sprinter van, hip-hop rattling the cabin. The muddy bass made my chest thump. These were the clowns The Pres wanted to watch our shipment? Something was funny.

There were only three of them, huge and sweaty in sleeveless shirts. Their arms were adorned with tribal tattoos. I watched one with long hair grab two of the gun cases. Another did the same and they began loading the van. Our guys went to help as the bald driver walked up to me.

He said, “Off the fourteen by Mikelyn Road.” His soft voice betrayed his heavy frame.

“Copy,” I said. “No funny shit.” I watched uneasily as the other two tossed the weapons into the van. They were like toys to these guys.

“You do your part and stay out of ours, eh?” He said. He turned around and walked to the van.

I spit on the ground. He was lucky I didn’t have the time. There weren’t any words after that. The others finished loading the van and closed the doors. The big men nodded as they got in the vehicle and the driver started the engine.

Loose Leaf jokes about their weight, and Steiner laughed. I watched the vehicle pull out of the driveway. I saw a slight correction as the driver avoided a pothole, then the vehicle exploded in an orange fireball.

A deal gone bad. I thought this shit only happened in the movies. There I sat, bloody and in shock strewn over my bike. My body stung and burned. I felt agony as I moved onto my side.

I looked over, Steiner and Estevez were on the ground motionless. I saw Loose Leaf stumbling towards the shop, blood dripping down his neck coming from his ear. Someone had just signed a declaration of war, and this was the opening shot.