Читать книгу 1 Law 4 All - Billy Angel - Страница 17

Kitiona stopped at a Chevron station to gas up. Like most Hondas, this bike was reliable and cheap on gas. Unlike most bikes, it appeared to be a beat-up wreck on two wheels.

Her banged-up Honda Shadow had seen better days, but she liked it that way. The last thing she needed was for her motorcycle to attract attention. Kitiona also figured that a beat-up motorcycle was less likely to be stolen.

Kitiona and her motorcycle shared a common notion. Her Honda could be seen as flashy while she could be viewed as stunning. She wanted neither to attract attention. Her visual beauty matched her inner innocence.

Kitiona's looks turned heads whether in a laundromat or walking down a crowded street. She was blessed with silky skin, a shapely figure and looks of a striking Hollywood starlet. Her slightly shaped, almond eyes, dark eyebrows and full lips were prototype Eurasian.

She did not like or want the extra attention. She learned to dress down. She would wear oversize clothes to mask her well-formed, athletic figure. She rarely put on makeup. She wore Maui Jim sunglasses concealing her stunning eyes. She'd let her eyebrows grow bushy and thick. Kitiona camouflaged her beauty and her motorcycle's flash so that there looks would not cause heads to turn.

Her friends in American Samoa told her she wouldn't need a car in San Francisco. What they really meant was don’t get a car because there’s no place to park it.

The City had buses and trolleys for public transportation. Public transportation was ok for city dwellers with time to spare. Kitiona had investigating to do. She needed to move around quickly and independently. She needed transportation that she could park easily.

Her younger brother, Siali, had a 50cc scooter back home. Kitiona enjoyed taking it out for a spin from time to time. She guessed that would be an efficient way to get around the city.

Kitiona thought about Siali's huge smile while she was riding through the City streets. His white teeth radiated against his dark skin. She remembered that last time she saw him.

He had dropped her off at her friend’s house. He waved with his carefree style as he drove away. That was the night of the fire. She never saw his smiling face again.

She did see the scooter one more time. It was leaning against the house that night. The burning inferno reduced Siali's scooter to a mass of melted metal.

When she arrived in San Francisco, she looked around to buy a scooter. She was thinking of her brother and how excited he would have been. In her own way she was trying to keep his memory fresh and alive.

The sales person at Downtown Bikes told her that scooters were not the best way to get around San Francisco's hills. He tried to sell her a used Harley 883cc Speedster cycle. She declined but she did follow the salesperson's advice and not buy a scooter.

Kitiona used Craig's List and the Penny Saver magazine to check out the used motorcycle market. She called several potential sellers. She was intrigued by the idea that a 43-year-old lady was selling her Honda Shadow.

The 750 Shadow came equipped with Cobra exhaust pipes and an over-size rear tire. Kitiona called the number listed in the ad. The seller wanted to meet at the Golden Gate theatre where she worked as a stagehand.

Kitiona found the theater just off Market Street. She noticed that the neighborhood was a mixture of apartments, stores and large public buildings. The neighborhood’s ambience seemed peacefully quiet.

Kitiona walked into the theater and noticed several people on the stage painting scene-boards. She walked up to the front and asked for Laura. A middle-age lady with dyed, black hair put her paint brush down, began walking towards Kitiona.

Laura wiped her hand with a paint-stained rag and held it out. Kitiona's extended her hand and shook the woman's callused, dry-skinned hand. "You must be the person who called about my Honda Shadow.”

"Yep that's me,” Kitiona said back.

"Well come out to the back and I'll show you the bike.”

They walked though the stage doors to the alley. Several bicycles, scooters and a dented, purple colored motorcycle were lined up along the theater's back wall.

"Here she is. My son customized it before he went into the Army. He was killed during his second tour in Afghanistan. I've been riding his bike ever since. The front fender's dent happened when he and his friends played motorcycle polo."

"Sorry to hear about your son. I'm sure he did his nation proud."

Laura took a step back. "I'm selling his bike because it's a constant reminder of his needless death. There's no reason for American boys to be going hand to hand with those terrorists over there. We should nuke their asses and call it a day."

Kitiona understood this mom's grief. Her family had been senselessly killed, too. Laura took a deep breath, exhaled and sat down on the motorcycle. She slipped the key in the ignition. A green light behind the speedometer flashed on. She opened the gas petcock and pushed the starter button. The motorcycle immediately roared to life. A few seconds later, it whispered while idling.

Laura goosed the throttle a couple of times. Then she looked at Kitiona. "Well you want to take it for a spin?"

"Sure," Kitiona smiled.

Kitiona took off slowly in first. She turned the corner and gunned it up the street. The bike responded quickly and quietly. If she didn't know any better, she would think this was a brand new bike.

In reality, the motorcycle was mechanically flawless. Its esthetics left something to be desired. The paint on the gas tank and fenders was chipped and someone had tried to touch it up. The spoke-wheels were chrome under all the dirt and street grease. The seat was comfortable. The oversized tire on the rear wheel kept the bike stable and the ride smooth.

The feature Kitiona liked best was that the motorcycle sat low enough so she could touch the ground with both feet. Most bikes sat too high for her 5' 1" frame.

Kitiona bought the Honda Shadow from Laura. As she drove away, she took note of the apartment buildings and the calmness of the neighborhood.

Today, Kitiona found herself riding on the same street where she test-road her motorcycle. She remembered her favorable, first impression of this neighborhood. She slowed down and stopped close to the corner of Leavenworth and Turk Streets. Next to the Azalea Market was a small three-flat with a For Rent sign in the window.