"What's next, Counsel?"
"The last item, shithead, and then—if you play your cards right during probation—membership, and your Henchmen colors."
"Let's have it."
"Go to Chin's deli, pick up a six-pack of Coors, two packs of Lucky's, rolling paper, potato chips, a crunch bar, and a copy of Mad magazine."
"That it?"
"Yeah... and don't pay for shit."
"Wait a second! That chink's a crazy motherfucker! He keeps a double-barrel and a .357 under the counter. He wasted two niggers last year during a rip-off!"
"Listen, fuck-nut, I don't care how you do it. Waste him first, if you want to. Just get the shit and don't fuckin' pay, or you'll be a wannabe for the rest of your miserable life."
"Fuck you, Counsel. Let's go to the chink's."
By now Dog had been prospecting for five months, and he wasn't going to let some quick-triggered Chinaman keep him from his dream.
Counsel pulled the van across the street from Chin's. It was about seven P.M., and the streets were starting to get dark. They walked toward the deli, Dog looking like a boxer approaching the ring on the night of a championship bout. Cold, determined, but obviously masking a belly full of butterflies. He looked over at Counsel. Counsel nodded, as if to assure him that he would put his life on the line for him if he was truly at risk.
As they entered the store, Chin was sitting behind his counter watching a rerun of Mission Impossible on a poorly working black-and-white TV. Children could be heard laughing above the faint sound of Oriental music in the back-room apartment of the store. Counsel sniffed the air, enjoying the sweet aroma of the cooking smell from the back room. He flipped through the pages of a news magazine while Dog continued with his mission.
Chin sensed Dog's uneasiness and stood by his chair, expectant. With everything on the list except for the cigarettes and rolling paper, Dog began his approach to the counter, his eyes locked with Chin's.
"Two packs of Lucky's and a pack of E-Z wider," Dog demanded, with uncertainty in his voice. Chin reached behind and to the right, pulling two packs of Lucky Strikes off the cigarette rack without taking his eyes from Dog's. He then pointed to the display case of rolling paper on the counter. Dog slowly removed a pack and handed it to Chin.
Chin began to speak.
"Will there be anything el—" Dog's fist found Chin's forehead. Blood began to pour from his head and he fell against the cigarette rack. Dog and Counsel leaped through the doorway and ran across the street as car tires shrieked, narrowly avoiding the darting figures.
"Let's get the fuck out of here, Counsel!" cried Dog as Chin appeared in the doorway, shotgun in hand, bleeding from the head and crazy for revenge. Counsel pushed the gas pedal to the floor and sped away, as the dazed Asian pumped four shots at the escaping vehicle.
Things were simpler then, thought Counsel. Much simpler. The bikers partied at Mike's until two A.M., then moved the celebration to the clubhouse for the rest of the night.
Chapter 5
It had been three hours since he'd picked her up along the interstate, forty miles outside of Phoenix. She hadn't spoken a word, then or now. The white lines of the road held her with a hypnotic effect. Ed Mulligan, an independent trucker since '68, could stand it no longer.
"Do you talk, kid?" he asked.
"Sure I talk. What do you want to talk about?"
"How about the usual bullcrap? Where are you from? Where are you going? Some simple conversation, for crissake. We still got six hours before we get to Brawley. It would go a lot quicker if you'd lighten up a little, sweetheart. You said your name was Christy, right?"
The girl sighed.
"Right. I'm from Phoenix. I just got out of the Saint Agnes Home for children. I have no idea where my parents are and they don't give a fuck about me anyway. I'm going to California to get a job and enjoy myself for a while. You know—sun, fun, all that good shit. Okay?"
The tone of her voice sent a clear message: Leave me alone. Mulligan decided not to push it. The pretty, mysterious teenager could remain in her private world.
Christine Glidden, seventeen years old, born in Phoenix. She was the younger of two girls. She still remembered that day when she was eight years old. The screams. Her sister lying dead in the driveway, crushed by the wheels of her mother's car. Her mother being restrained and taken to the mental hospital. It was more like a dream now than a real memory. The months of being tossed around between relatives while her mother recovered and her father struggled to make a living as a bus mechanic.
She pulled an old photo from the pocket of her denim jacket, then quickly returned it. She massaged her temples as she thought of the day her parents had left her at Saint Agnes'. It had been a cloudy morning, just two days short of her ninth birthday. "I'm sorry, darling," her weeping mother had said. "Seeing you every day, I can't get over what happened to Laura. It won't be long."
She spent the next eight years yearning for a family, never understanding why her mommy and daddy had left her. Never understanding why they never came back.
Mulligan pulled into a truck stop twenty miles outside of Brawley. It was a mecca for drivers taking southwestern routes into California. A gas station, diner, and tavern, it was the most popular trucker's spot in Southern California. The Henchmen-owned establishment also catered to the honest trucker's need for a little boost to help him drive through the night. And it catered to the dishonest trucker's need to dump a load of hot TV's or stereos.
"Wait here," Mulligan ordered the teenager.
"Hey, where you going, man?" she asked.
"I have to talk to a couple of people inside. You just sit tight. Here, light up." He handed her a joint and a book of matches.
"Shit, man, you should have told me earlier you had smoke. Thanks."
Mulligan smiled as he shut the door to the cab. Once inside the bar he ordered a beer for table number six.
"Sure thing," said the bartender, as he wrote a note on a small tablet and placed the sheet of paper on the waitress's tray. "There's two ahead of you."
"This one's too hot to wait," said Mulligan.
"I'll see what I can do."
Victor "Crazy" Crawford and Henry "Savage" Rivers were sitting at the rear table with a trucker from Wisconsin. The trucker rose abruptly and left with his two hundred dollars of methamphetamine as the waitress handed the note to Savage.
"It better be worth it," said Savage. "Tell him to come over."
The waitress waved him over and Mulligan sat down with the expressionless bikers.
"What you got?" asked Crazy. The clean-shaven biker had piercing green eyes that looked deep into Mulligan's. It was like looking into the eyes of Lucifer.
"I got a sweet young thing sitting in my rig. She can't be no more'n seventeen or eighteen. I told her I could take her as far as Brawley. Interested?"
"How much?"
"Three hundred," said Mulligan.
"Fuck off. One-fifty," countered Savage.
"Make it two. Come on, she's a pretty young thing."
Savage looked at Crazy, who shrugged indifferently.
Mulligan returned to his rig to retrieve the pretty teenager.
"That was good weed, man," she said happily as Mulligan climbed into the cab.
"Listen." Mulligan lowered the radio. "How would you like to party with some cool guys from a motorcycle club? They'll take you all the way to Los Angeles if you want, or San Francisco, or wherever."
"Wow. Who are they?"
"The Henchmen."
"Oh man, fuck yeah. Those guys are the coolest. Thanks. Thanks a lot, man."
"Don't mention it, kid. I'm glad to help out."
Mulligan drove off with two hundred dollars in his pocket. Christine drove off on the back of Savage's bike. As they glided gracefully between lanes on the highway, her hair lashed wildly around her face. A princess on a white knight's horse, she thought. Imagine, the most famous motorcycle club in the country taking me to Los Angeles. She had
never felt so free.
The apartment was exactly what I had expected. A crapped-up one-bedroom in a run-down part of town. Leverick had even been thoughtful enough to furnish the damn thing for me. A mattress, no box springs or covers, on the floor to sleep on. A chest of drawers that looked like it belonged in a museum and a cracked mirror completed the scene. An old easy chair with a couple of springs broken sat next to a table and lamp in the living room. An open sleeping bag served as an area rug, and a milk crate supported a black-and-white TV set. The kitchen and bathroom should have been condemned. Maybe a few tons of Brillo could have made a dent. There was beer in the refrigerator. Christ, he even had empty pizza boxes on the floor. In short, it was perfect.
My first ride on the Harley was a little unnerving. The bike I'd trained on hadn't had its handlebars quite so high. It would take a few days of cruising around the neighborhood before I could master the chopper.
I made frequent trips past Mike's bar and the clubhouse. By this time, I figured, they must know exactly where I lived and who I Was. After two and a half weeks my hunch proved correct. It was a Saturday morning. I was just about to settle down to some Saturday morning TV when there was a loud bang at the door. When I opened the door I was tackled by an animal whom I'd briefly had the pleasure of meeting while in prison.
"Hey, brother, how the fuck are you?" he asked as he pinned me to the ground. He then gave me a big, wet kiss on the lips.
"I'm great, Dog. How the hell are you, man?" I asked, as I slipped out of the position with a move any high school wrestler could have managed. I then climbed on his back and attempted to get him in a headlock. He dumped me off his back with ease and we both laughed at our childish reunion. I didn't immediately notice the other biker who'd come in with Dog until he yelled at us from my easy chair.
"Shut the fuck up, you guys! Pee-wee Herman's coming on!" The three of us watched the humorous opening of the kid's show. I found out later that it was a favorite among bikers. Shortly before Dog got sent away, he and few of the other Henchmen had gotten bit parts in one of Pee-wee Herman's movies.
"I'd like you to meet Little Vinney, Doc," said Dog, as he yanked him out of the easy chair and took the choice TV seat.
"Would you jump in my grave that fast, Dog?" Vinney protested.
"If it was this comfortable and had TV I would."
"Moron," Vinney mumbled. He extended his hand to me. "How are you, Doc? I heard about Boldero. Fuckin' hacks are always tryin' to fuck with the inmates." Vinney and I continued our conversation as we walked to the kitchen to get a beer. Dog continued to watch Pee-wee's Playhouse. I found it amazing that people so capable of violence and terror could turn into five-year-olds at a moment's notice. Or maybe the opposite was true. Maybe these fun-loving kids-at-heart could turn themselves into psychopaths at will.
"The word is you were approached by someone from The Medinos while you were inside," said Vinney. Vinney was one of the most unassuming-looking of The Henchmen. At five-eight, and slim, he looked more like a gymnast than an outlaw biker.
"Yeah. I wasn't sure if the guy was full of shit," I said.
"He's not. The Medinos control a lot of hardware imports. The trouble is, they can't distribute without our permission. And we ain't gonna give it."
"Let's make sure we're talking about the same thing, Vinney."
"Niners, man. He did tell you he had niners for sale?"
"Yeah, man, niners. For sure." I'd had to get him to say it. If something went wrong and we had to shut down the operation early, the case for conspiracy to buy weapons wouldn't stick if the language wasn't specific. He could claim he'd been referring to motorcycle parts rather than firearms.
"Here's the deal, Doc," said Vinney. "Make the call. Set it up for the day after tomorrow. We'll meet you at Mike's tomorrow night to go over the details. Okay?"
"Sure, Vinney. One thing," I asked. "How did you know I was approached by the Mexican?"
"The Henchmen have long arms and big ears, man. Big fuckin’ ears. Let's go, Dog."
I was excited as I waited for them to ride away. It was all coming together beautifully. Integrity and brains. That's what it takes to succeed in law enforcement. After a few more minutes of congratulating myself I rode my bike to a deserted spot under Highway 64. During the construction of the highway, a public phone had been installed across the street from the workers' favorite diner. The diner had long since closed, but the phone company had never bothered to disconnect the phone. It was the perfect spot.
My conversation with the Mexican went smoothly. But I was uneasy. This group held a blood vendetta against the Henchmen, yet they were anxious to do business. Who's more dangerous, I wondered, the bikers or the Medinos?
Molly Samuels was on duty at Base I when I called in the information on the weapons buy.
"Do you want backup on this one, Martin?" Samuels asked.
"No need, Molly. Thanks. The Mexicans are eager to do the deal and The Henchmen eager to buy. The price is already worked out, so it should be a simple deal."
I was lying. Something wasn't right with the deal, I could feel it. But I didn't want some over-anxious agent making matters worse by moving in too soon and blowing the whole case. I'd rather take my chances alone. Besides, I was going to have the most powerful motorcycle gang in the country with me. Samuels took down all the information and wished me luck. Before I left I called home to check in with Amy.
My calls had become few and far between, since leaving the training facility. Contact with Amy interfered with my ability to stay in character. She and I had agreed I wouldn't speak with her too often while on the assignment. She could call Atwood's home in case of any emergency. This was upsetting for both of us, but it was better that way.
As I rode back to the apartment, my thoughts were with Amy and Alex and not on my riding. I accidently cut off a pickup truck at an intersection, forcing the driver to the shoulder. I rode up alongside the truck and peered in at its shaken passengers.
"You all right?" I asked.
"You fucking freak!" the driver bellowed, a balding man in his early fifties. His wife sat next to him, silent but visibly shaken. "You could have killed us. Where the hell do you come off riding like that? Don't you have any goddamn respect for law and order?"
"I guess you're all right," I said as I rode away, the driver of the pickup still cursing and shaking his fist. I laughed to myself about what I must have looked like to him. I rather enjoyed it that my appearance and my apparent disdain for the law had rattled him so much. If he only knew...
I arrived at Mike's early the next evening. None of The Henchmen had arrived, and only a few of what seemed to be regulars were drinking at the bar.
"What can I get ya?" asked the bartender, a short, muscular man in his late forties. His face was hard, stone-like. His eyes were tired. I wondered what those eyes had witnessed in this bar over the years.
"I'll have a beer." He nodded, placed a napkin on the bar, then filled a glass from the tap.
"Hi there," came a female voice from behind me. "You must be Dr. Death."
"Who's asking?"
"I'm Christy. Word is all around the street about you. Used to be a Saint, right?"
"Still am," I said. "Word travels fast, don't it?"
"Sure does, Doc." She sat on the stool in front of me, her legs spread open. A sorry, drug-addicted whore. Her vest bore a PROPERTY OF THE HENCHMEN patch over the left pocket. Her legs and arms bore black-and-blue marks.
"For a twenty, I can make you feel right," she said, as she placed her hand between my legs and gently massaged my crotch.
I pushed her hand away. "I got business. Maybe later." Those terribly sad eyes locked into mine. It was as if she sensed my compassion. Her eyes grew watery.
"Sure, Doc. Maybe a freebee for you. Somethin's different about you, man. I can't put my finger on it. Somethin'."
At that moment I felt incredibly sad. For her. For me. For my wife Amy.
The sudden roar of
motorcycles liberated me from my predicament. Christy quickly retreated to the rear of the bar like a frightened mouse. I spun around on my stool and faced the doorway. The rest of the patrons never flinched. They kept drinking and bullshitting as if they hadn't heard the thunderous approach of the outlaws.
Iron Man Morgan was the first to come through the door. It was customary for the sergeant-at-arms to walk into a public establishment first when traveling with the club's president. Counsel was next, followed by Little Vinney, Dog, Hank the Skank Becker, and Henry "Savage" Rivers. I was introduced to the members I didn't know and invited to sit down at the rear booth.
There was a white-tape line on the floor surrounding The Henchmen's table. At the edge of the line was a sign on a short metal post that read: DO NOT CROSS THIS LINE UNLESS YOU ARE INVITED. Nobody ever crossed it. Not even a member's old lady could just walk in and run up to her man. Even if she had money to give him, earned from a night of giving blow jobs to horny johns, she would still have to wait outside the line until summoned across.
"Let's have it," demanded Counsel. I couldn't see his eyes behind the sunglasses. The shades and his long light-brown hair and beard made him resemble a hip, slightly overweight Jesus Christ. Lord knows, the members treated him like a savior.
"The Mexicans are anxious to make a deal," I said. "We can have their entire stock of fifteen hundred pieces and an option on a thousand more. It's set for tomorrow morning at eight o'clock."
"Where?" asked Savage.
"At the warehouse on Pier 40, by the tracks. They'll be waiting in a red pickup," I said, looking into his cold, piercing eyes.
I learned later that Savage and Iron Man were members of The Wild Bunch. About eight Henchmen from the L.A. chapter wore this patch on the front of their vests. It was issued to the club's killers. My cover's reputation was supposed to rival theirs, but they scared the hell out of me.
"All right," said Counsel. "Iron Man, Savage, and Dog go with you. No colors. No bikes. Take the gray van."
The club had three vans, which were kept in rented garages around East Los Angeles. The other two, a 1980 brown Caravan and an '86 blue Ford, were available on a first-come, first-served basis to all members. All three trucks were registered in the name of Alison Green, Victor Crawford's girlfriend.
Deep Cover Page 5