Los Angeles is a sea of lights from airliners jammed in a long line entering LAX. There are lines everywhere -- at movie premieres, on the freeways, at Disneyland and the city's 4,000 Jack in the Box restaurants. There are white lines on glass mirrors in the Hollywood hills, lines of cars in the streets, lines of carts in the supermarkets. But the worst ones for Chance Hogan were in the San Pedro post office where he lives from a small P.O. box. Standing on the granite floor of the '30s-era building, he towered above the others in line. He stands 6-foot-2 and weighs 210 pounds. He has long, sandy blond hair and chiseled features coupled with two weeks of stubble. Chance wore Wrangler jeans and shit-brown Justin cowboy boots with "In The Wind" stitched in the sides. He wore a $65 Harley watch, a gold motorcycle-wheel ring and a green bike run sweatshirt with a rusty-brown welder's vest thrown over it. He was waiting to pick up a package 'cause he was too cheap to rent a larger box. Three overdue bills and a wad of junk mail hung loosely in his gloved hand. He didn't dare step out of line to shit-can the junk mail. It would cost him an hour. It was the middle of December and the lines were even more formidable than usual. He was supposed to meet his riding partner, Vince, for lunch. He didn't like the nagging reminder his watch was giving him, 10:15 a.m. Chance wasn't mastering an upwardly mobile career, but that came with the nick-name, Chance. He took chances, rolled with the punches, made a deal from time to time to keep himself out of serious debt. It was the way he liked it, easy, so he could flow with the wind. He went where adventure lead, took the opportunities fate dealt him. He was a chip off his dad's block.

Those who knew his dad called him Dice Hogan. He was a gambler, constantly playing the odds, generally losing. He finally drank himself to death. Chance hadn't seen the old man much. He was a loner. Chance shared that same selective isolation. No one saw Chance on a regular basis except Vince. Chance looked at his watch again, 10:25.

Across town, Vince rolled his Street Stalker out of the garage and fired it to life. The bike was a used, wrecked Softail he'd rebuilt and slapped a Street Stalker kit on. The bike was jet black. Everything was blacked out, even the wheels. Most of the chrome was gone except the stainless handlebars, the primary, the shifter lever and the Bartels' pipes. Harley-Davidson had installed a BP-40 cam, shaved the heads and ground performance into the valves. The bike had a modified CV carburetor with a Thunder jet and a Thunder slide installed by Departure Bike Works in Richmond, Virginia. The scoot was painted black by Kenny Morris, with traditional yellow scallops, hand pinstriped in red. It sounded as bad as it looked, with a nasty set of one-off, slash-cut, Bartels' shotguns. Vince rode the bike like Jesse James handled a Colt. It was a part of him. He molded his jet-black, bruised and scraped leather pants into the seat as he threw his muscled leg over the saddle. His black gloves became an intricate part of the handlebars as they wrapped around the black Harley Knucklehead-style grips and he snapped the throttle. Vince was 5-foot-10 and strong for his size. He had long, black, wavy hair and a goatee that framed his olive skin. With his menacing Italian heritage, he terrified most men and attracted most women. At 30, his eyes were marble blue and brilliant and his smile wry. He was confident without being egotistical. You can't pack a lot of ego in an empty bank account. No one knew his last name, not even Chance. Course no one knew Chance's real first name. They were both anonymous to the outside world.

Vince and Chance worked out on a regular basis and Vince had an extensive martial arts background. He even taught others from time to time, but he was currently out of work. He buttoned the leather shirt over Patagonia thermal underwear. The final layer was his HAL leather vest that fit like a glove. He threw a black leather satchel strap over his shoulder and gunned the engine, then released the choke. The satchel held a finely cleaned and cared for .45-caliber H&K automatic, two clips, two protein bars and a 65-page screenplay he was pitching to a Santa Monica producer. Everyone rides nowadays, but when it comes to pitching screenplays, the old bad-biker stereotype prevails. Every studio Vince approached showed him the back door. Bikers are still scary to the Hollywood types.

Vince was involved with a naive German blonde who could have been a supermodel but she couldn't speak enough English. Vince, being an overprotective, paternalistic and possessive sonuvabitch, wouldn't let her near the agencies. Sort of a riding, irate postal worker, he was a serious gun zealot, with weapons placed in strategic locations in every room of his Palos Verdes pad. As a college student he was attacked twice by gangs of angry students and beaten badly. A switch went off in his brain, and he has been armed ever since. He went on a violent bent, prepared to use whatever means it took to settle any brutal situation, quickly and efficiently.

Vince rode out of the alley where he lived with Nicole and blasted onto Pacific Coast Highway. The highway has a sexy reputation, one of gentle curves, sparkling night clubs and the lapping ocean. Winding through Redondo Beach, Manhattan Beach and toward Santa Monica, Vince traversed a sea of junk food restaurants, car washes, gas stations, car dealerships, strip malls and barred windows. He skipped through traffic as if it were a parking lot, darting past the four-wheeled obstacles. Stoplights pepper the famous highway every four blocks. He added 15 mph to the 35 mph limit, which timed them to remain green. At 50 mph, he was golden, making time like a rabbit on an open trail. He had an appointment in Santa Monica, then he'd jet south on the freeway to Long Beach for lunch and a game of pool with his brother Chance.

Chance stood still as three culturally diverse patrons absorbed the postal workers' attention at three barred windows. After waiting an endless amount of time to reach a clerk, each patron stood comfortably against the marble facade and chatted as if they had the whole fuckin' day. Time seemed to creep past for the remaining patrons, as they jawed with the invisible postal workers behind the marble exterior. Chance shook as his anxiety increased. He was nervous, twitching. He considered going "postal" on the existing customers and getting the hell out. The junk mail in his hand burned and he removed his gloves. Just as he thought he'd lose his mind completely, a small child burst into tears after cutting her lip on the steel railing.

Meanwhile, Vince split lanes past Manhattan Beach Boulevard, making less than two lanes fit two cages and one fat-tired motorcycle. Ahead, there was another intersection with a teenager on the corner, a senior in the cross walk and a compact making a right into his lane. He was certain the compact driver had looked directly into his charcoal-tinted shades. The senior crossed the side street predictably. The car people edged. The teen bounced a ball light-heartedly against the curb. Vince was zinging into the intersection at 50 mph when the woman in the car jumped into the right hand lane directly in front of him. He stood on the brakes. The rear tire broke free and he backed off while pulling firmly on the blacked-out handlebar controls. The 16-inch Dunlop grabbed at the harsh pavement. He was going to T-bone the cheap hunk of old tuna cans. He bore down on the rear brake again and the rear wheel broke loose, sliding graciously toward the rear of the compact. He noticed a hole between the vehicle and a truck. At the crucial moment he released the rear brake and spit the bike forward, thinking, praying and predicting that the dark-haired car person would remain in the right-hand lane. Not so. She continued into the left lane and caught his frame just below the shotguns, popping it into the air. The bike lurched to the left directly into the path of a Ford F150, shattering the headlight cowling on the blacked-out Street Stalker. Vince was spit into the air like a rag doll. He attacked the pebble-gray asphalt with his lower back, slamming his torso against the unforgiving surface.

For a moment, his world went into a Twilight Zone of slowed motion and surreal images. He could see the horrified look on the car person's muted face. He saw the squealing rear tires of the Ford truck as it veered into the opposing lane to prevent additional contact. Vince's limbs slapped the pavement. He felt something crack in his right elbow and a charge of pain rushed up his arm and down to his fingertips. He rolled to his right with searing anguish as his shoulder took the impact of his upper torso, head snapping to the side, pulling against his adrenaline-packed muscles. For minutes he laid as still as a bronze sculpture, looking peaceful. Sirens wailed.

In the post office, Chance answered his cell phone. "You don't know me," said the anxious voice. "I ride a Ducati and was chasing your friend down PCH when a woman pulled in front of him and he went down."

"What?" Chance yelled, startling the people around him. "Is he all right?"

"I don't know," the rider named Tim said breathlessly. "He just mumbles something about his briefcase. Somebody's got to come and get it."

"I'll take care of it," Chance said. "Where are they going to take him?"

"I don't know, but I'll find out."

"Call me back when you know," Chance said and hung up. He dialed Nicole's number and let it ring. No one picks up the phone in L.A. That's why fax machines and the Internet were created--to communicate. Most people just let the phone ring, watching the caller I.D. code for a reason not to answer. If Nicole recognized Chance's cell number, she wouldn't answer the phone for two reasons. Girlfriends and wives hate single riding buddies, especially tight ones. The other reason had to do with Chance's green eyes. She had a weakness for them and it wasn't a healthy one. When the answering machine kicked in, Chance said, "Goddamnit Nicole, answer the fucking phone. It's about Vince. Call me, goddamnit, on my cell." He hung up.

One patron left a window and the line moved a foot.

His cell jiggled in his pocket again. "Yeah?"

"What do we do with the bike?" Tim asked, still gulping air.

"I'll take care of it," Chance said and hung up.

He called Bartels' and asked for Ron. "The Street Stalker is down," Chance said.

"Where is it?" Ron asked.

"On PCH, not far from you," Chance said.

"I don't have a truck," Ron said.

"You don't have a truck? What kind of fuckin' dealership..."

"Excuse me, excuse me," a voice came from behind Chance. He spun to face a massive, middle-aged Slav who was wearing a dirty set of royal blue overalls with "Roy's Towing" embroidered above a pocket full of pens.

"What the hell?" Chance barked. "My brother was just in an accident and you're in a hurry?"

"I own a towing service, dipshit," the man said through crooked teeth. "Where is he? I'll send a truck."

"Sorry. He's at PCH and Marine. Hurry, will ya, and haul it to Bartels' on Lincoln."

The man dug into his stained uniform, came up with a smudged cell phone and dialed. "Joey, get the flat bed over to PCH and Marine to pick up a Harley, and take it to Bartels'."

Chance finally took notice of the long line of people staring at him as he barked into the cell phone and the big mechanic behind him followed suit.

"Excuse me, sir," a feminine voice called out from the line.

"Yeah?" Chance said, dropping his voice to an acceptable level.

"I'm a nurse." She was a short, round Hispanic woman with caring eyes and long black hair tied in a ponytail. "Don't let them take your friend to the county hospital. Ask them to take him to Sisters of Mary in Santa Monica. They will take good care of him."

"Cool, thanks," Chance said, hoping the phone would ring again. It did.

"It's Tim. The EMTs are here. He's rolling in and out of consciousness. Where should they take him?"

"Sisters of Mary in Santa Monica," Chance spat with confidence. "I'm trying to get in touch with his girlfriend to get the briefcase. I don't know what I'll do if I can't reach her. Just keep it out of the hands of the cops, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I got it," Tim said.

Chance was distracted by a tugging on his sleeve. "Hold on, Tim." As he turned around, he noticed a small kid dressed in black, carrying a full-faced helmet and wearing a fluorescent yellow vest. The Japanese kid with a milky clear complexion and scraggly Fu Manchu mustache looked up at Chance and held a bright yellow card in his free hand. He didn't utter a word.

Chance took the card, which read "L.A. Courier Service. Safe, Fast and Secure. Tommy Pagoda." A light went on in Chance's overloaded brain. "You know where he is, kid." The kid nodded. "Bring the briefcase to the Blue Cafe in downtown Long Beach at lunch." The kid nodded and turned away, then abruptly turned back, handing Chance an 8-by-10 envelope sans postage. Chance nodded, "I'll take care of it."

"Tim," Chance said into the cell, "Tommy Pagoda is on his way to pick up the case."

"All right, I've got it," Tim said. "The cop looked in it for Vince's ID, but now I've got it."

A chill went up Chance's spine. "Did he find anything?"

"He looked a little startled, then said something about it not being in there and handed me the case." Tim said. "Damn, that thing is heavy, though."

They exchanged numbers and hung up. Chance called Nicole again. The phone rang four times before the answering machine picked up. "Nicole," Chance barked into the phone, startling the post office patrons again. "Listen, Nicole, the next time I call you, answer the phone, or I'll come over and ring your Kraut neck. Got that?"

Chance was still behind six people with packages. Another half-hour passed. The cell rang again. "Hey," a gravely voice stumbled through the airwaves.

"Who the hell is this?"

"It's Vince."

"What's happenin'? You still going to make lunch?"

"I don't know, brother." Vince struggled to say. "Do me a favor and don't call Nicole. She'll freak."

Chance nodded without saying anything.

"Ya see, her brother was run over by a car last week. She's a bit sensitive about bikes and the car people," Vince said.

"You gonna make lunch or not?" Chance asked, ignoring the Nicole subject. "We've got shit to talk about."

"I've got a concussion and can't see or balance too well," Vince said. His voice seemed to fade out like the signal on a cell phone running through traffic, but it wasn't the phone.

"You're not dead, right? Then you'll be getting hungry shortly."

"I'll do what I can brother, but the bike's a mess."

"I'll call Ron and get back to you," Chance said and hung up. He called Bartels' again. "Ron, as soon as the bike gets there, give me a call. We need that thing running. We don't care what the hell it looks like."

"No problem, Chance," Ron said.

Chance tried Nicole again. No luck. Another patron was helped and the line moved another foot. Murmurs circulated about the lousy level of service, the plodding clerks and the wait. For a while, the drama on Chance's cell kept the zombies occupied. Some asked about Vince's condition. Chance kept thinking about a particular waitress at the Blue Cafe. She was way tall, with jet black hair that hung softly around her shoulders and curved upward against her skin. She was well proportioned for a tall girl, with ample breasts, pouting lips and supple hips. She was hanging with a local bouncer, but what the hell? Thoughts never hurt anyone.

The phone rang again. The connection was bad and Chance pressed the receiver hard against his ear. "Brother," the voice was drawn and strained.

"I can't hear you," Chance said as another patron was helped and the line moved another foot.

"It's me, Vince." Was he talking from a coma? "Not sure I can make it to lunch on time. Got a concussion, chipped a bone in my elbow, bruised all my ribs and my spine."

"So, I take it ya can't ride." Chance said. "And I called Ron and told him to hurry. Can't get ahold of your wandering wanton woman either. What do you suggest?"

"Hooooow about breakfast in the morning?" Vince asked hesitantly. His voice was strained and distant.

"Breakfast?" Chance said raising his thick eyebrows. "Breakfast? You know the rule, the code. If you say you're going to do something, ya gotta do it."

It was 11:15 on the clock above Vince's hospital bed. Time was running out.

"I know, I know," Vince said, "but without wheels or Nicole, I'm shot."

Chance spun on his heels to face the even longer line. "OK, who's got the limo service?" Chance shouted.

"Who wants to know?" said a 6-foot young man in a tuxedo.

"I got a brother at Sisters of Mary hospital in Santa Monica. He needs to be in downtown Long Beach at the Blue Cafe by noon."

"I gotta make a call," the swarthy limo drive said, opening his jacket. On one side was a pager and a phone. On the other a 9mm Browning was tucked into a shoulder holster. "Yo, yo, asshole," he spat into the phone, "quit fingerin' my sister and get over to the Sisters of Mary hospital. No, it wasn't another shooting. He's a biker. Pick him up and take him to the Blue Cafe in Long Beach. Ya got that?" The sharply dressed Italian snapped the phone shut and slipped it back into his pocket. "Done deal," he said.

The line moved again. Chance stepped up to the window just after eyeing the speeding deco clock on the wall. 11:30. He slipped the yellow postal form up to the thin black woman behind the counter.

"What's the box number, sir?"

Chance told her 1168 and watched her hips sway past the other tellers into the area behind the post office boxes. She returned with one crushed box leaking red syrupy fluid, and a certified letter. The box was from his mom, who had made some sort of fruit jam and the post office had crushed it. The envelope contained an eviction notice. He turned and faced his fellow post office inmates. With his leathered arm outstretched, he dropped both items into the adjacent waste paper basket, shrugged and said, "Thanks." His sarcasm didn't go unnoticed and the patrons broke into applause.

Outside, he mounted his stretched rigid frame, fired it to life and headed toward the Los Angeles harbor. The frame was the new Jesse James' West Coast Choppers all nasty rigid. His stroked Evolution sat in it like two atomic silos coupled to the rear wheel through a Harley-Davidson 5-speed transmission. The pipes swooped to the pavement, a combination of 13/4- and 2-inch pipe with a turn-out that could only be described as the tongue of the devil lapping fearlessly at the pavement. His seat was almost non-existent foam with a layer of leather stretched over it. The gas tank was pure Jesse James, stretched narrow with a hint of Sportster. The front end was a narrow glide extended 12 inches, and between Jesse and Chance they had fashioned the narrowest pair of drag bars on earth to Jesse's Diablo risers. Front and rear fenders were small cups for street grabbing tires, and the paint was black, black as night with heavy flake silver flames. It was a two-wheel dart thrown by the devil himself.

The limo pulled up to the downtown Long Beach blues joint and pool hall just as Chance slid into the parking lot. The silent courier sat at a table in the outdoor patio. Chance paid the kid and he zipped out of the parking lot on a flat-black rice grinder, doing a wheel stand for half the block.

Vince struggled out of the limo, stumbled and grabbed the outdoor railing. His head was bandaged, but he pulled off the bloody gauze wrap and shit-canned it. He struggled to the table where Chance sat sipping Jack on the rocks. "'Bout time you got here," Chance said.

"Fuckin' car people!" Vince said, dropping into a plastic chair. As soon as he hit, he came out of the chair like a rocket. "Think I'll just stand."

"What's the matter? The Vicodin hasn't kicked in yet?"

"I don't take that shit," Vince said. "Took a handful of aspirin before I left the hospital. Where's the briefcase?"

"Right there," Chance said, "but don't bother opening it. The screenplay's gone."

"Whatta ya mean?" Vince asked in a pained voice.

"I told you not to lose it," Chance said.

"Is the H&K still there?"

"Yep," Chance said.

"What kind of problem will this cause?" Vince struggled with the words.

"What kind would you like?"

"We'll deal with whatever it is," Vince said, grabbing for the edge of the table as he lost his footing and fell abruptly to the concrete deck. Waiters and busboys ran to his aid. Chance pushed the light plastic table aside and looked down at his brother. "Just like today, huh? You ready to order?"

On To Part 2 - She Wore Blue Velvet....

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