Their bikes were chained and locked in the parking lot that bordered the single-story corner building. The saloon sported one flickering sign that said The Spot, with a dart board painted under it and a peeling, striped dart pointed at the bull's-eye. The street lights cast an amber hue on the sparkling motorcycles. Vince had overcome the lumps and bumps of his earlier encounter with the car people on Pacific Coast Highway and the Street Stalker had been returned to fighting shape with black powdercoating and patched tanks.

Inside, a group of Hispanics leaned against the bar drinking beer and speaking in their native tongue. Three bikers played darts. An enormous blonde stood at the pool table in contrast to her skinny 8-ball partner, an older rail of a man in Levis and a flannel shirt. Her shooting was so abysmal that Chance finally got up from his stool and gave her a simple, aim-the-cue pointer. She sunk her next three balls. Suddenly her pudgy features glowed. She searched the darkness beyond the scratched and dented pool table to find Chance and thank him.

Chance sipped his whiskey and turned to Vince. "I need to make some money and find a girl to take care of my sorry ass."

"We're not going to find any girls around here," Vince said. There had been one nice looking girl the first time they'd rolled into the joint, but never again. The girls were small. It seemed as though the harbor water had stunted their growth. They didn't seem to have a lot on the ball, either, and overtly drunk women leave a lot to be desired. Chance nodded as he watched the only decent chick in the joint dart up and down the bar pouring drinks. She was blond and the corners of her mouth indicated to the world her every joy and sorrow. She had that natural ability to spill her entire emotional condition with a turn of her lips. Fortunately, they indicated good weather most of the time.

"You're right," Chance said as if admitting defeat. "We could go to Hollywood."

"We need to make some coin, brother," Vince said. "We need to sell that movie deal and you need to sell some bike parts or write a freelance story for some bike rag before we go play in partyville."

They were both running on empty. Vince had been writing for an ad agency when his account evaporated. Their screenplay had been rewritten 17 times without catching a dime and now it may have slipped into the wrong hands, or worse, the right hands with the wrong intentions. Vince's bank account was nearing bottom. Nicole, the leggy blond German, had returned home to work. He'd had his apartment packed and ready to be shoveled into a storage locker. And the year was only beginning.

Chance, who was usually upbeat and cocky, looked at the shattered wood shutters that once protected the windows of The Spot and wondered how anyone could keep a business in such bad repair.

"This place needs a hand grenade," Vince said, patting his leather satchel that carried his .45-caliber H&K, two extra clips and another violent goody or two. Chance didn't ask what it held that Friday night. It was best not to know.

The front door, littered with bolts and locks, opened as three young girls walked in giggling and pushing each other. They slid up beside Chance and whispered to one another. Chance turned to face a bubbly brunette with shoulder length waves of softness. Her face was unnaturally hard for such a young broad. Her skin was soft and freckled, but her features were mature, her brown eyes direct and tough. Maybe it was the dark eyes and heavy eyebrows.

"I'm Chance. What's your name?"

"Susanne. What kind of name is Chance?"

"A bullshit one," Vince said. He nudged Chance, whose eyes were cemented to the girl's.

"We'll see," she said, turning back toward her friends at the bar. Her tits were small, her legs long. Chance overheard her girlfriend say, "Let's get out of here." The girls picked up their gear and Susanne turned to face Chance as they headed toward the door. "Will you be here in a half-hour?"

"If you will," Chance said.

She nodded and said, "I need to take care of a problem with an old boyfriend, but I'll be back." She strolled out the door leaving a trail of perfume, Obsession.

Vince spun on his rickety stool to face Chance. "It's always a dangerous proposition with you, isn't it?"

Chance shrugged his shoulders and ordered them another round of drinks. "We could leave."

"You won't leave and you know it. You'll play the card, take your chances, you bastard." Vince was right and twice as cocky as Chance. Thirty minutes passed before they finished their next drink, then 35.She walked in the door in a black mini-skirt, a tight blue velvet top and a long leather jacket. Those same dark eyes bore into Chance as he stepped off his barstool to meet her.

"I told you I'd be back," she said in a quick burst of Arnold Schwarzenegger-like confidence.

Chance looked at the long legs disappear under the thin short skirt and thought better of reminding her that she was five minutes late. "What'll you have?"

"You," she said and tossed her purse on the bar.

"We'll get to that, but wouldn't you like a drink?" Chance said.

"Don't drink much, but I like hot chocolate," she returned.

"Hot chocolate?" Chance was floored. Suddenly he wondered how old she was, but he didn't dare ask.

"How about Baileys and cocoa?"

She shrugged and Chance asked the waitress for a taste of Baileys. She seemed to enjoy the sweet coffee flavor, so the deal was done and the bartender shuffled off to brew some cocoa.

"How about a ride?" she said. Her leather trench coat spread open like a satin curtain on a mystery movie and the shapely mistress became that much more intriguing.

"I'm sure we can work something out," Chance said, feeling the growing need to press his body to her form.

"I'm sure we...," she muttered in a whispery voice that rolled out of her mouth like a fog and engulfed Chance. She took a step closer and slipped her hand around his trim waist.

The bright-eyed bartender returned with a steaming cup of cocoa seriously laced with Baileys. The mixture, about a thousand calories a drop, swirled around in the cup like some treacherous swamp of chocolate daring anyone to wade in. Someone coincidently tuned the jukebox to play "I Think I'm Going out of my Head" by Little Anthony and the Imperials. The words poured out and encircled the couple. Chance pulled Susanne onto the tiny dance floor. They smashed their bodies together in a whispering grind. "Let's go to my place." she said in his ear and followed it with her moist tongue and hot breath. He didn't need to answer verbally. His body responded.

Vince looked at the two, shook his head and returned to the bar and a slow banter he had started up with the blond bartender. When he turned around to check on his brother, they were gone. Only the swinging bar door gave away their departure. Then he heard Chance's motorcycle fire to life, rattling the filthy windows of the bar. The Jesse James Diablo pipes spit hot exhaust at the pavement, sending cigarette butts and San Pedro grime up against the drab stucco.

Like the scream of a banshee, the two sped out of the parking lot and into the night. Susanne's coat flapped wildly in the wind, her hair like flames behind her head. A short mile away, Chance pulled his sizzling black rigid between two 1940s clapboard duplexes and shut it off as the lights came on in the other units. He and Susanne crashed through her front door in a fiery blaze of hormones, ripping at each other's clothes. Chance came out of his cowboy boots, socks and Levis, then stood above her and removed his shirt. She seemed to flow effortlessly out of the trench coat. Her pantyhose disappeared while their faces pressed together in one long, daring kiss. Steam seemed to drift off their bodies as they slipped into the small bed like long-lost lovers.

Their tongues dueled in desperation to find something they never would. Chances' hands flowed over her flesh like an addict's straw over a fresh mound of cocaine. She felt good, real good, too good. She tasted better than Jack Daniels, an indescribable flavor that just says yes or no. It said YES.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Then a more persistent pounding. Chance pulled back and could see the longing in her bright eyes. Her expression turned from fiery passion to concern, then fear. "I didn't tell you," she said, panting. "My last boyfriend is a cop. We broke up months ago, but he keeps coming around."

The pounding shook the door. "Susanne! I need to speak to you." The ardent voice broke the barrier of the rickety wood door.

Chance jumped out of bed. As he searched for his Wranglers, he looked for the first time around the interior of her one-bedroom bungalow. The joint was a disaster. There were art projects, kids' toys, stacks of papers and photographs everywhere. He quickly slipped into his denims and opened the door. A tall, dark-haired man in a wind breaker tried to look past him to the inside. Chance blocked his view.

Back at the bar, Vince sipped his drink and watched the tall blonde play pool. She was young and fresh looking, with soft skin and a clear complexion, but she had let her body go the way of her pool game. Her clothes were disheveled. A cardigan sweater hung at an awkward angle around her shoulders, partly covering a smudged white T-shirt. She must have weighed over 250 pounds. Vince slipped a quarter onto the table and sat back as she missed another shot and proclaimed, "I'm no pro." As if that announcement somehow freed her from any competitive responsibility.

Her scrawny partner wasn't much better. The audience consisted of one slightly buffed youngster with a crew cut and high-water jeans. He must have been from the nearby Navy base and he drank one MGD after another. Clean cut, he scoffed at the players' lack of abilities, yet never put up a quarter. Next to the youngster sat the oldest seafaring drunkard on Pacific Avenue. All gray, with flowing hair and beard, he watched intently, occasionally getting up to point a crooked forefinger at the edge of a ball the blonde meant to hit.

Finally the game was over. The blonde consumed a barstool with her ass and sipped at her beer. Vince approached the table and picked up his quarter as his gaunt foe chalked his cue meticulously, eyeing the dark-haired biker suspiciously. The kid in the T-shirt got up from his stool, knocking it over as he approached Vince. "It's my turn, asshole," he said. Vince didn't budge, but leaned down to scoop up a handful of balls. "Where's your quarter?"

"Well," the kid said, reaching into his pocket, "I was going to play next."

"Put your quarter on the felt there, and you can play next game. It's the code of the west," Vince said, leaning down for more balls.

"Fuck!" The kid snapped and almost ran to the bar for change.

Vince racked the rainbow of balls and the game was on.

"I want to speak to Susanne," the off-duty cop said, his eyes full of peaking anxiety.

"You can't," Chance said, acutely aware of the man's discomfort.

"She is in there, isn't she?" he said. "How long have you known her?"

"Listen, buddy, I'm cold," Chance said. "I barely know this girl, but you've got to go."

She came onto the porch behind Chance and started to scream at her ex-boyfriend. "I told you we were through, now get the hell out of here."

Chance listened to the harsh tones behind him, looked at the broken man and wished he was back in the bar. The cop moseyed slowly down the narrow path toward the gate, muttering, "I guess it's over. I see now."

"You're goddamn right it's over," Susanne shouted from the door.

Chance went back inside, sat on the edge of the bed and tried to find his boots in the rubble on the floor.

"Where you going?" Susanne's voice softened. Chance pulled on a cotton gym sock and rolled the scenario around in his mind. He was witnessing the gamut of a woman's emotions in a one-hour period.

"I don't like cops," Chance said, pulling on a boot. "I don't trust the system, they've got too much power, and I just moved into this town. Besides, I don't like to see anyone have their heart broken."

"But you don't understand," she returned. "I haven't been seeing him for..." She was naked again, pressing her tits against his back. "Just stay for a little while, please."

Meanwhile, Vince played the tall longshoreman, took the game handily and downed another shot of Jack. He stood back from the table and waited for the young punk to return. He ordered another drink. As he lifted the tumbler to his lips, someone walked into him and the harsh amber liquid splashed down his leather shirt. Spinning as the kid passed, he planted his black cowboy boot carefully between the kid's legs, then tightened. The kid stumbled and fell to the floor that was soaked with every imaginable brand of liquor and sprinkled with 20 years of boot grime and cigarette ash. Vince went back to chalking his cue and paid little attention to the kid scrambling to get up.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" the kid asked as he pushed his chest out and drove it against Vince's wooden cue.

"What the fuck is it to you?" Vince said, turning to face the raging bull. "Did someone loan you a quarter? Rack the balls."

The kid was fuming. He stormed around the table, grabbed the rack and tossed it onto the delicate felt. He grabbed the balls and tossed them onto the table, making no attempt to organize them. "There, motherfucker, break."

Vince eyed the punk warily, leaning down to take his shot. Vince took quick strokes at the alabaster ball, then his arm tensed and he lunged against the cue. It struck with such force that the cue ball lifted off the table and smacked the punk in the chest. He was forced back against the wall and dropped his cue. The old man leaned toward the dank deck and retrieved the ball, placing it back on the felt. The kid stormed around the table. He stood eyeball to eyeball with Vince shouting, "You sonuvabitch. You did that on purpose."

Vince looked him straight in the eye and said, "Lousy rack. Your shot."

Back at the apartment, Chance laid back down on the bed and she curled around him like a boa constrictor wraps its silky smooth body around its prey. Chance was distracted by the cop at the door for a while. He thought about the rubble-strewn apartment, the screaming woman and the steaming chocolate she never touched, then he felt his body start to respond again, and again the clothes fell toward the floor. Soon they were clamoring around each other. One of Chance's weaknesses was a passionate woman, no matter what the circumstances. Tomorrow he could handle whatever life dealt. Tonight he would bet on her passion and his growing lust. With his lips brushing her taught nipples, the cop became a distant memory. As his rough hand slipped up her smooth thighs, the condition of her apartment became unimportant, and as his tongue slipped deep into her mouth and his hardness into her wetness, her harangue fell on deaf ears. He'd gone to heaven once more, and nothing would interfere with the natural bliss of it all.

She writhed against him on the tiny bed as if they were making love on a mountain top and the whole world was far beneath them.

Meanwhile, Vince adjusted his peripheral vision to include every angry move the kid made as he sunk one ball after another. With each carefully calculated shot, the kid tensed. His arms began to twitch to Vince's pool cue cadence. His spine stiffened and his eyes narrowed. Finally Vince missed a shot and the tight-lipped crew around the table took a tentative breath in unison. The sigh and the missed cue eased the tension.

Vince stood back as the kid glared, a vehement stare that would melt steel. As the kid desperately searched the table for a shot, he saw there was none. "Fuck," the kid snapped and turned toward Vince, his hands shifting on the cue to more of a baseball stance. Vince eyed the kid with a deadpan Italian mug, as if he had no idea what the kid was upset about, which infuriated the youngster. "That's it mother fucker. I've had it with your shit. I'm going to take a piece of you."

Vince ignored the comment. "Wait," he said. "I think you have a shot on the 13 ball. Look." Again the tension surrounding the table peaked as the kid almost took a swing with the cue, then hesitated. The gathering crowd sighed while Vince pointed out the shot. Red faced, the kid's eyes flashed at Vince, then at the table. He saw the shot, difficult as it was, but his machismo wouldn't allow him to back off. He was blind to the rest of the table. All he could see was the 13 ball partially hidden by the 6 ball. If he was able to slice it finely, he could pass Vince's ball, clip his and make the shot. But it pissed him off that the biker in all black was manipulating him at every turn. He found the chalk and rubbed it so hard against the padded tip of the cue that it cracked and broke into several pieces.

The kid's palms sweated. He could smell the beer oozing out of his pores and abruptly he could smell his sweat and feel it permeating his thin T-shirt. The wetness made him uneasy. He leaned over the table, stared down the over-used barroom cue and aimed. He wanted to prove he could sink that 13 ball, then he wanted to kick this biker's ass more than anything in the world. The cue moved awkwardly in his hands. Beads of sweat built on his forehead like bubbles floating to the surface in boiling water. The tension surrounding the table heightened. Fight anxiety was high. The old man on the stool next to the table scratched his beard and was sure that if the kid didn't make the shot, there was going to be a fight. The big blonde backed into the corner of the room and whispered to her lanky friend. The kid's eyes darted around the room nervously. He stroked the cue, stopped, wiped the sweat from around his eyes and tried again. Finally, his patience gone, he had to shoot, no matter what happened. Straining his cracking composure, he shot. As planned, he clipped the 13 ball. It bounced against the cushion prematurely and missed the pocket, but the cue ball didn't. It was a scratch.

Back at the apartment, Susanne lay spent on the edge of the bed. Chance kissed her cheek tenderly and pulled the covers over her nude form. A crooked smile formed on her lips. She tried to say something then decided that the moment was too perfect to disturb with verbal communication. But Chance had to move. He slipped out of bed and dug through the rubble at his feet to find his clothes. He left quietly, watching for the cop outside. He wiped the moisture off his bike seat, pulled on his gloves and looked at the sky as if to find an answer to the wonders of life. Why are the true joys in life absolutely free, like sex, the sunset and a starlit night? It was cool around him as the bike rumbled to life, but he was floating on air as he popped the West Coast Choppers scoot into gear and slipped into the street as quietly as he could, his straight Jesse James pipes slapping the pavement.

It was less than a mile back to The Spot and the motorcycle seemed to run effortlessly. Chance had been in this situation many times, but each was like the rush of heroine in a druggie's veins. He couldn't get any higher, more at ease with the world and at peace with himself as he blasted into the parking lot alongside the bar and skidded to a stop. Shoving his tan deerskin gloves between his risers, he stepped off the two-wheeled freight train just as the 13 ball crashed out a window and rolled under a car. Shouting followed.

Suddenly Chance was back in the rude reality of the barroom scene. He wondered why the hell everyone didn't just go home and fuck. They'd have a much better time. They'd spend less money and have fewer DUIs and fights. He bounded into the dingy bar as the young Marine charged Vince with a swinging pool cue. "He knew it was a scratch shot," the kid screamed, tearing across the room toward Vince on the other side of the table. Chance instinctively knew what was going to happen as he turned to hear Vince's side of the story while the other patrons ducked for cover and backed against the wall. Vince pulled his leather fanny pack around until it rested under his belt buckle and unzipped it.

"No," Chance shouted, rounding the corner of the table.

Vince pulled a massive .45-caliber H&K from the sack. Two spare clips slipped snugly into a plastic case fell out of the leather onto the floor. The fat blonde screamed. Vince calmly released the safety. The kid drew the cue stick back in a blind rage and began to swing. The bent cue whistled in the air until it came smack in contact with Chance's left palm. With his right hand, Chance formed a web and struck the kid in the neck while following through with the momentum and strength of his torso. The kid's forward movement halted and he began to bend over backward. Chance kept driving, pushing, jamming the junction between his forefinger and thumb into the kid's Adam's apple. The youngster gasp and went over backward. Chance ducked as the first round was discharged and it slammed inches above the Marine's head, punching a nickel-sized hole in a photo of some St. Patrick's Day guest on the back wall. Patrons dove for cover as Chance took the kid to the deck with a resounding thud. Chance went with him as two more rounds made their way through the back wall in a tight pattern. The hollow points pierced the wall then dispersed like shrapnel into the wall.

Chance jumped to his feet. "Goddamnit, you're fucking with my vibe."

"It was self defense," Vince said while the patrons kissed the molding carpet around him. "He threw a pool ball at me, and would have hit me with that cue."

"I don't give a fuck," Chance hollered. "We've got to get the hell out of here." A siren could be heard in the distance.

Vince knelt down to retrieve the clips, slipped them into the sack at his waist and stood casually. Watching for any movement on the other side of the table, he backed toward the door.

They hurriedly fired their bikes and blasted into the street. "What's for breakfast?" Vince hollered over the screaming machines.

"Pancakes," Chance returned, looking in his vibrating rear view mirror for cops and angry boyfriends. "In Arizona!"

On To Part 3 - Escape Through Terminal Island....

Back to Part 1 - Dance of the Lane Splitters....

Back to Stories on Bikernet....

Bikernet's Vince and Chance Feature Series Is Brought To You By: