"I need to call my parole officer first," I said. "I'm two days late in checking in, and he's a real prick about shit like that." I had to take the chance. There was no telling when I would get a chance to call again. Henchmen parties often lasted three days or more. If Monk didn't buy that parole officer line, it was all over for the operation.
I started walking toward the pay phone near the entrance to Mike's. Tension was building in my gut. "I'll go with you," he said. I couldn't read him. Why did he want to come with me? Had I blown it? Or was I just being paranoid?
No sooner had I picked up the receiver than Monk grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. He reached inside his jacket. Should I move on him? was my immediate thought. He pulled out a quarter. "It's on me, man. I know how those fuckin' ballbusters can.
"Thanks, Monk," I said, letting out the air I had stored in my lungs. This wasn't going to be easy. With Monk standing right there I couldn't talk freely. I punched in the numbers rapidly, too fast for him to memorize all the digits.
"Base One." Thank God, I thought. It was Leverick. Of all the people involved in the case, I felt the most comfortable with him. After all, he'd trained me for this assignment. He knew me better than anyone else.
"This is Randall," I said.
"What? Martin, is that you? Are you all right?"
"Yeah, yeah, sorry, man. I forgot," I said, knowing a parole officer's first question would be why I hadn't called. I looked at Monk and rolled my eyes in disgust. Monk snickered.
"You're not alone, are you?" said Leverick
"Right, I looked for work. Nobody's hiring, man, what can I tell ya?" Again I looked toward Monk, this time motioning with my hand near my crotch to further mock my fake PO. Monk started laughing.
"Okay, Martin. I guess you're all right. We received word of what happened with the Mexicans. Did they try to rip you off?"
"Yes. I'll call on time from now on." I placed the receiver near my buttocks.
Monk was weak with laughter.
"All right, Martin. Try to call within the next two days and give me an update. I'll let the rest of the crew know you're well."
I hung up the phone and joined Monk in a belly laugh. We walked across the street to a pizza joint with our arms on each other's shoulders, laughing all the way at the Establishment that tried so unsuccessfully to control us. I thought again about Roger Wolfe. He must have been nearing seventy when he'd told me about one of his undercover assignments. At fifteen, I thought that was the greatest life a guy could have. He told about a time when he was working an illegal still in a small town outside of Jackson, Mississippi. "Sometimes you do some backslapping and drinking with your targets and you almost have a good time," he said. "But you can't ever forget why you're there. You're the greatest actor in the world, playing the most important role of his life. A role where if you forget your lines, you can get killed."
Once inside, Monk and I ordered four slices of pizza and two Cokes. Tony Marinaro, one of the last of the old store owners left in the downtown area, brought the food to our table. Marinaro was the type determined not to let crime, filth, and the general deterioration of the neighborhood drive him out.
"Enjoy, boys," he said with a thick Italian accent. "If you need anything else you ask, okay, boys?"
"Sure, Tony. Thanks," replied Monk.
"You've been coming here a long time?" I asked Monk.
"Shit, yeah. I think I was about eight years old when I first came into Tony's. Every Saturday I ran here when he opened at noon and ordered two slices and a Coke. The whole thing came to about forty cents. A lot has changed since then, Doc." Monk pointed out the window.
"See that karate school across the street?"
I nodded.
"That used to be a bakery. And that Gospel church next door used to be a movie theater. It's funny, you know. No matter where our chapters have their clubhouses, they always seem to be on the edge or in the middle of the worst fuckin' neighborhoods. I don't know if the raunch is attracted to us or if we're attracted to it."
"It seems to me that the real estate is cheap," I said jokingly. I knew full well why all the Henchmen chapters were in the middle of the worst neighborhoods. The drug trade. As one of their main sources of income, the manufacture and distribution of meth-amphetamine and its many derivatives thrived in the lower-class neighborhoods. Also, no middle- or upper-class street would tolerate a Henchmen clubhouse on it. The desperate existence of the poor areas of town makes possible things most of us see only in the movies and on television.
Monk and I were the only customers in Tony's, until six black men crossed the street from the karate school. They were all in their early twenties. Wise guys, who obviously studied the arts to be better able to intimidate people. Three of them wore stockings on their heads that resembled flesh-toned hair nets. They entered the pizzeria in an unruly manner. Pushing each other, throwing kicks and punches through the air. Monk acted as if he didn't notice the group. He kept eating his pizza and shaking his head up and down, like he was listening to music that only he could hear.
"Let's have a pie, old man," the tallest of the punks ordered.
"Yeah, wiff anchovies," added one of his buddies. "And make it snappy, happy."
"Ten minutes, boys. You relax, okay?" said Tony.
"No, you fucking relax, Jack," said another guy, this one now sitting at the table next to ours, who acted as if he hadn't heard the last remark. Most of them were now kicking their workout bags around the store like footballs. I looked to Monk in order to gauge his reaction to the intrusion. He kept eating as if the punks didn't exist. Tony came out from behind the counter and started to sweep the floor. One of the men grabbed the broom from Tony and motioned it toward his head.
"Boys, now stop this!" pleaded Tony.
"Eat shit, cracker," said the punk, as he swiped Tony on the side of the head with the broom.
"Get out! Get out now, or I'll call the police!" said the flustered old man.
"You ain't gonna call shit, peckerwood," said the man sitting at the table next to us, while the tallest of the group positioned himself between Tony and the entrance to the counter. Monk looked up for the first time since the men had entered the store.
"Split! Now! You fuckin' cocksuckers!" shouted Monk.
The tall one pushed Tony aside and walked up to Monk, stuck his finger in Monk's chest, and said, "Shut the fuck up, white boy. How da fuck you two dickface mothafuckas gonna make us split?" For a second everything became silent. The rowdies stopped playfighting and making noise. Every one—myself, Tony, and the rest of the punks—had their eyes on Monk and the man pressing his finger against the Henchman's chest.
Then came the distinctive crack of a snapped finger bone as Monk grabbed it and bent it back with vicious speed. A look of shock appeared on the tall one's face. As he stared at his mutilated hand in disbelief, Monk hammered an elbow strike which must have broken his jaw. The punk immediately dropped to the floor. Monk jumped on the table and leaped at the two men now approaching us. He knocked them off their feet. One of the others caught me with a straight kick to the stomach. As I doubled over I grabbed the top of the table, spun around, and caught my assailant across the side of his face with the table base. His face distorted terribly. Blood, saliva, and teeth spurted from his mouth as he fell to the floor. Before I could get my bearings, I found myself being choked from behind with the broom handle. I grabbed at the handle to lessen the pressure on my Adam's apple, just as one of the stockinged heads came leaping toward me with a flying kick aimed at my face. He was met with my foot in his groin as he leaped through the air. The three of us fell to the floor. I grabbed the broom and drove the end of the handle into the solar plexus of my attacker, leaving him and the ill-fated leaper squirming in pain on the floor.
Monk was giving the last two a final pummeling against the counter while Tony frantically telephoned the police. "We're done, Monk! Let's get the fuck out of here!" I implored.
"Not yet," Monk in
sisted. He walked over to the unconscious finger-pointer. The one who was the obvious ringleader of the group. Monk opened his fly and began to urinate on the head of the motionless body. This was a battle ritual for many bikers—like a cannibal warrior eating the flesh of his fallen foe.
Monk zipped his fly and started for the door.
"Come on, Doc. We have a party to go to."
Chapter 7
Bail was set at ten thousand dollars. This was the first time Kevin "Irish" McBright had been arrested since he had left The Henchmen eight months earlier. A state trooper had pulled him over for making an illegal right turn, and the car was searched after the trooper became suspicious. The charge—possession of two grams of cocaine.
During the twelve years Irish had ridden with the club, he had been pulled over and ticketed more than a hundred times. He had been arrested three of those times for possession of narcotics. Only then he'd had the club's bondsman and legal-defense fund. This time it was his wife, Sandy, who arranged bail.
Irish had no particular reason for turning in his colors to Counsel. He had just had enough. Years of hard riding, drinking, and fighting had taken their toll. He had to forfeit his motorcycle and blacken his Henchmen tattoos in order to leave. He was told the club would keep a watchful eye on him. He understood.
Sandy waited outside the courthouse while Richard Clement, the court-appointed lawyer, presented the bond and arranged for his release. Irish was brought into a small conference room and surrendered to his attorney.
"I'm Dick Clement," said the tall, slightly overweight lawyer.
"Are you gonna get me off on this piss-ant charge?" said Irish.
"Look, Mr. McBright, with your record they could give you seven years. Three priors for possession. Fifteen arrests in the last ten years for disorderly conduct. Assault. Attempted mur—"
"All right, all right. I know the tune," interrupted Irish. "I just think this is bullshit. Most guys walk without a problem for a diddlyshit amount of coke like that. It's not like I was selling the stuff or nothing."
"I might be able to get you a deal," said Clement. "I talked with a"—he flipped through the pages of his yellow writing pad—"Detective Roberts, this morning."
Irish's eyes widened. He sat up straight in his chair.
"I'm listening," he said.
"They want you to turn state's evidence against a member of the club who they believe strangled a prostitute two years ago. They believe you witnessed the murder. All charges will be dismissed if you're willing to cooperate."
Irish had witnessed the murder. He and Savage had been making the rounds together one Friday night, collecting from club-controlled prostitutes who were working the downtown streets and massage parlors. Savage thought the girl was lying about a trick that didn't show. When she was unable to produce the twenty dollars, he grabbed her throat and choked the life from her frail body. Irish had never questioned Savage's actions. A brother is always right.
The biker stood up. He placed his face close to Clement's and said, "Tell them to fuck off."
"Listen, I think you're making a mistake."
"I said, tell them to fuck off!" Irish was now shouting. "I may have hung up my colors, but I'm a Henchman for life! A Henchman doesn't rat on his brothers! I’ll do fifty fucking years before I turn punk! You go that straight?”
“Sure.” Clement shook his head. “I got it straight. Your wife is waiting outside. Your hearing is in two weeks.”
The party was already under way when Monk and I arrived with the beer. Motorcycles were lined up three-deep outside the clubhouse. There was an almost constant rumble of Harley engines. Some bikers would leave the party, kick-start their hogs, throttle the engine, then go back inside. Like a junkie needing a fix, a biker sometimes needs to feel the power of his machine between his legs.
Monk and I carried a keg on our shoulders. Two large pans of ice were set up. we placed the kegs in the pans and affixed the spouts. The bikers converged on the beer, mugs in hand. Dog didn’t bother to use one. He just put his mouth under the spout and began to guzzle.
“What the fuck took you guys so long?” Dog wanted to know, beer still dripping from his mouth.
“I had to take a leak,” answered Monk. Dog shrugged his shoulders and returned to the beer line. Grateful Dead music was blaring, and some of the old ladies and mamas were dancing topless. The clubhouse was hazy with smoke from joints and cigarettes. Now and again one of the bikers would join the girls, fondle one for a moment, then go back to drinking and smoking with his brothers. Counsel approached and handed me a small silver replica of The Henchmen insignia.
“Stick this on your vest. Leave it there until the party’s over,” he instructed. “A lot of the bros haven’t met you yet. This will let them know you’re a guest.”
"Thanks." I pinned the insignia above my left pocket.
"Don't get pissed if someone looks you over," added Counsel. "Just make sure they can see the pin. Everyone will know you before the end of the night. You know, last summer a stupid fuck from The Los Angeles Times crashed one of our gigs. I guess he thought he'd get some fucking scoop or some shit like that. We tore him a new asshole that night." Counsel looked away for a moment. "Hey, there's Benny." He shouted, "Yo, Benny, come over here, man!"
Benny was about six-three and must have weighed close to three-fifty. He had long, unkempt brown hair, a full beard, and wore a Harley-Davidson headband. As he came closer, I recognized the young woman with him. Oh, no! I thought. The words almost slipped out of my mouth. This woman works for the goddamn police department. My desk was only ten feet away from hers, for crissakes. My heart rate increased, and I began to tremble slightly. If my cover was blown, these guys would cut my throat on the spot. Okay, be calm, stay cool. She can't recognize me with my long hair and full beard. I took a deep breath.
"Hey, Benny, meet Dr. Death of the Satan's Saints."
"What's happening, Benny?" I said. I nodded slightly toward his girlfriend. She just gave a disinterested half-smile. I didn't mean to stare, but my relief was intense. Counsel must have thought I was eyeing Benny's girl, because he later reminded me of the club rule: No club member or associate should mess around with a brother's old lady. A member's old lady wears a patch that says PROPERTY OF BENNY, or Iron Man, or whomever.
It was beginning to make sense. Benny's girlfriend was a PAA (Police Assistant Administrator). She had access to the whole goddamn computer network. I used to overhear frustrated officers returning empty-handed after trying to serve an arrest warrant on a Henchman. Obviously she had warned him. He had quietly disappeared until the warrant was old and had-been shoved aside by more pressing business. These bastards had us more infiltrated than we ever had them. Until now…
By midnight I had met most of the Los Angeles chapter, except for Big Jimmy Hobbs and Fred "Lucky" Fletcher, who were both in jail. I sat down in an armchair, lit a cigarette, and tried to replay the day's events in my mind. One of the mamas, a heavyset girl named Pamela, sat on the arm of my chair and handed me a joint. "How you doing?" she asked.
"I'm doing okay, babe, how about you?"
"Oh, I'm just fine, Doc. You want anything tonight, you just come see Mama Pam."
The thought of intimate contact with her made me ill. I wondered how many cocks she had sucked and how many assholes she had licked today. Besides making themselves available to any club member upon demand, women like Pam would also prostitute for the club. They turned over all of what they earned. The Henchmen gave them drugs and a small allowance for other essentials.
Pam wore her long black hair straight, so that it partially covered her left eye. The scars she attempted to hide had been made by Little Vinney's cigarette. Her crime: She'd bought herself a pair of shoes with some trick money.
"I'll let you know," I said, as I handed her back the joint. I laid my head back and closed my eyes. Despite the blaring music, I started to doze off.
As I drifted away my thoughts turned to Amy and Alex.
I imagined my son sleeping in his little bed. I saw Amy reading a book, or maybe watching television. I missed her. There I was in the clubhouse of a major motorcycle gang, when I should have been home with my wife. I shook myself awake. Falling asleep was a dangerous thing to do at a biker party. I remembered from my training with Leverick that bikers don't take too kindly to people who fall asleep too early. Tattooing faces or setting crotches on fire were common penalties.
Lucky for me the attention at the moment was on Savage. He was being congratulated for today's victory. His right arm was in a sling, and he had a bloodstained dressing across his chest. I offered my seat.
"Thanks, Doc," he said in a low, weak voice.
"How you doing, Savage?"
"I'll be laid up for a while. Probably six weeks. Hey, somebody give me a fuckin' beer!" Pam came running over.
"Nice patch-up. Who did it?" I asked Iron Man. It hadn't been done in a hospital, that was for sure. All gunshot wounds had to be reported to the police. Savage would have been in jail, or at least held for questioning, if he had been taken to a hospital.
"A dude named Arthur Paterson. He's got a practice in his home. His daughter is one of our sheep." He was referring to Vicky Paterson. Iron Man had told her father that if he didn't patch up club members he would receive his daughter's head in a hat box. Paterson believed him. He would lose his license and face jail time if he was caught, but he had little choice. His name would be left out of my reports.
Around two A.M. Iron Man, Counsel, and Crazy went upstairs. Twenty minutes later, Crazy came down and invited me to join them.
He escorted me to the security room. It contained four file cabinets, with information on members and their families as well as on police officers, drug enforcement officials, local mobsters, ex-members, and anyone else the club took an interest in. I wondered if there was a file on me somewhere in there.
In the middle of the room was a conference table with four chairs. Iron Man and Counsel were seated. Crazy walked over to his desk. Except for his cutoff denim jacket and leather pants, he looked liked a corporate executive. He sat behind his desk, taking notes on a yellow writing pad. I sat at the table with Counsel and Iron Man.
Deep Cover Page 7