Both girls ran for the door. Fred grabbed Barbara and held her by the neck. Sandy caught Alice before she'd gotten more than ten steps away. He ripped open her blouse, exposing her breasts. She struggled and screamed as he tore the garment off her body. Fred held Barbara in front of him, with his right hand firmly under her jaw. He held her around her waist with his left hand, occasionally moving his hand down between her legs or up toward her breasts. He kept her turned toward Alice. "Watch carefully, cunt, you're next," he said.
Sandy pulled Alice's head back by her hair and put his mouth on her breast, biting her nipple. She struggled and hit him on his left ear. "Ow, you fucking little bitch!" he yammered. He smacked her with his open hand, almost knocking her unconscious. He clicked open his switchblade and held it to her throat. "You do that shit again and I'll cut your fucking tits off," he said, as he moved the blade slowly down her neck and to her nipple. She could feel the cold steel touching her as she lay there with her eyes tightly shut, trembling with fear, saying to herself over and over again that this must be a dream. Sandy motioned his head toward Joe. Lucky Joe grabbed Alice's arms and held her up. Sandy pulled off her pants and underpants. Slip and Beef each grabbed one of her legs. They suspended her in the air, spread-eagled. The chapter president then began to lap and slurp her genitals. Like a hungry dog he buried his head between her legs. When she was wet enough with his saliva, he dropped his pants and penetrated her. He came inside her quickly. They dropped her to the floor and Beef, Lucky Joe, and Slip violated her in every way imaginable.
Sandy sat smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. Fred had Barbara doubled over a small table, naked. He sodomized her repeatedly while burning her butt cheeks with his cigarette. He had a dog's choker chain around her neck. He would tighten it each time she started to yell. The abuse of the girls continued for six hours. Having had their fill, the bikers dropped the brutalized teens on a street corner three miles from the clubhouse. The police found them half-naked, bloodied, and delirious.
Chapter 9
I was sitting in the most comfortable beach chair I'd ever been in. Seagulls soared through the air, diving occasionally to pick up a dropped piece of popcorn or a hot dog bun. Amy was helping Alex build a sturdy sand castle. "Daddy, come play with me, come play, come pla—" And then I was sitting in bed, my head spinning, my heart pounding. "Shit," I said out loud as I glanced at the clock. "Three-fucking-thirty in the afternoon." The previous day's events quickly asserted their reality. The Mexicans, the fight at the pizza parlor, McBright... Kevin McBright. What am I going to do now? I wondered. Make arrests based on the weapons buy and drug stash?
It was good, but not good enough. I had an opportunity to do something no other law enforcement officer had ever done: become a full patch-wearing member of The Henchmen. I needed to speak with Atwood or Leverick right away. Still wearing my clothing from the previous day, I called in to Base I from a phone booth down the street from my apartment. Fred Parkins was on duty. I gave him a brief update and asked him to arrange a sitdown immediately with all the case agents. I told him I'd call for confirmation in thirty minutes. The Base I operation had been set up so that everyone could be assembled for an emergency meeting within hours. Each member had to leave a number where he or she could be reached twenty-four hours a day. Atwood and Leverick carried beepers with a range that covered the entire country. Even if they were out of state, they could participate in a conference call.
The second call I made was to Amy. "Martin, are you all right?" Her voice was cracking. I could tell she was fighting back tears.
"I'm fine, Amy. I'm on the verge of something real big here. It might even take less time than originally planned. I could be home in two months."
I really had no idea whether or not I could be home that soon. I just couldn't think of anything else to say to make her feel better.
"How's Alex?"
"He misses you too, Martin. He's napping right now. You want me to wake him up?"
"No, let him sleep. Tell him his daddy loves him. Tell him it won't be long before I come home for good."
We talked for about twenty minutes. All things considered, she was holding up pretty well. I told her I'd call in a few days, but that she shouldn't worry if I went long periods without contacting her. The nature of the assignment was such that I might not be able to get to a phone without there being one of The Henchmen nearby. She said she understood. She also said she was frightened for me. I was too.
I had no recollection of riding my Harley home from the clubhouse. But there it was, parked next to the curb. I had a little trouble kicking her over, but after several adjustments to the carburetor she finally roared to life. As I was about to pull out, a red Mercedes stopped short next to me. I didn't recognize the driver, but a moment later the passenger door opened and out popped Christy, the club whore, whom I'd met at Mike's the day before. No sooner had she shut the car door than the driver sped away. I killed the engine and Christy strolled over and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
"Hi, Doc."
"Who was that?" I asked, motioning my chin toward the vanishing car.
"Nobody. A good tipper, but nobody. I had him drop me when I saw you. How ya doin'? Heard I missed a real good party last night."
I said nothing. I was due at Atwood's soon, and I had to find a way to get rid of her. She started to walk around me, looking over the bike. "Nice hog, Doc."
"Look, uh..." Always the actor, I pretended to forget her name.
"Christy!"
"Christy. I got to get going."
"Me too, Doc. Just wanted to say hi. Can you give me a ride to the West Shore Motel? I got a couple of dates."
What the hell. It's only five minutes out of the way. I motioned for her to climb on, still doing my strong, silent type routine. She mounted up behind me and I kicked the engine over on the first try. Somehow that meant something. I didn't want to embarrass myself in front of her while trying to get the engine started. I laughed to myself as I thought of something Roger Wolfe had said to me before I went away to the FBI Academy at Quantico. "Marty, there's nothing, with the possible exception of money, that has more influence over a man's behavior than a woman. I don't care if it's your mother, your wife, or a stranger on the street. Once a female enters the picture you had better be extra careful, because when it comes to women you'll find you instinctively want to protect them and impress them." He was right. As minor as my behavior at that moment might have seemed, I knew I was showing off for her. I would have to be more careful and not let my behavior be so easily influenced.
I rode into the parking lot of the motel, and again Christy offered her services before we parted company. "Anytime, Doc. Thanks for the ride."
I sat there a moment, the engine idling loudly, and watched her walk toward the building. I could think of a hundred other things this sorry young girl should be doing right now besides whoring herself for The Henchmen. So many of these women wind up dead from drug overdoses or violence. I wanted to protect this pathetic creature, to save her from this life. I hoped it wasn't already too late for her.
It took me about thirty minutes to ride to Atwood's. Everyone was there, just like six weeks ago when I'd left the prison. Samuels had brought a bunch of 302's.
"Here you are, Martin," she said, as she handed me a stack of forms. "There's a separate 302 for each potential case. There's one here for the weapons buy and the subsequent shooting."
"They'd probably walk on that one. Self-defense," inserted Atwood.
"There's one for the weapons and drugs stashed at the clubhouse," Molly continued. "I've also included forms for the conversations you had at Mike's regarding the alleged activities of the eight members. Initial them all here and here." She pointed to the top left and lower right-hand corners of the form. "Handwrite any changes or additions, and initial them too." It took me about fifteen minutes to review the 302's. It all seemed in order. Indictments and warrants could be issued at any time.
"All right, l
et's get started," said Atwood, his cigar in his mouth. "Marty, I didn't get the details from Fred. He said you needed an immediate meeting. Well, here we are."
"Here it is," I said through a deep breath. "They've asked me to kill someone." Atwood took the cigar out of his mouth. He nodded his head slightly, as if in approval of this new development. Samuels and Parkins sat silent, looking to Atwood to say something. Leverick was the first to comment. "Who, Martin? Who do they want you to kill?"
"An ex-member. Guy named McBright. Kevin. His street name is 'Irish.' The guy's looking at some serious time for a drug thing, and they think he's going to roll."
"Maybe you should just do it," said Parkins facetiously. Atwood rolled his eyes in disgust. I ignored the comment.
"Well, I guess that just about finishes the operation," said Molly Samuels. Her voice was strained with disappointment. She had counted on this one. Breaking the back of The Henchmen would have been a boost to everyone's career, but to Molly that part seemed unimportant. She was more concerned with taking the bad guys off the street than with any personal gain.
"What does it mean if we pull out now?" I looked around, posing the question to every member of the team.
"We could disrupt the mother chapter by arresting its major players," answered Leverick. "With the offer for you to take out McBright, we could get Benson on a conspiracy to commit murder charge. The weapons buy puts Morgan, Rivers, and Fenway away for at least seven, and we could shut down the clubhouse with the bust on the drugs and military hardware. That's if we can make everything stick."
"Shit," I said. "We were getting in good. Now it's blown."
Everyone looked at Atwood. He hadn't commented since hearing about The Henchmen's intention to chill McBright. He puffed on his cigar, smiling slightly as he scanned the table and making eye contact with each of us.
"Maybe we should let you shoot McBright." His comment lacked the facetious tone of Parkins'.
"What?" I asked.
"You're kiddin', right?" asked Leverick.
"No, I'm not. I mean, let's just say it was possible for us to make The Henchmen believe Dr. Death had carried out the hit."
"Impossible," said Parkins. "They'd want proof. You think they're a bunch of assholes?"
"Talk to me," I said to Atwood. I knew he was serious. "I'm in the club as a full patch-wearing member if we can do this."
"It's never been done, forget it," said Parkins.
"Shut up, Fred!" snapped Atwood. "You don't know what's been done and what hasn't been done. You think you know every goddamn thing that's gone on every year, year after year, since the Bureau was started?"
"So in other words, we fake it," I said.
"Yes, we stage the whole thing. It's been done before. Not many times, but it's been done." Atwood leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, cigar in his mouth.
Leverick nodded his head in approval. "As crazy as this sounds, Marty, I think it could work."
"What about Martin's cover?" asked Samuels.
"Yeah, what about my cover?"
"It would be a bit complex," said Leverick. "Everyone would know just what they'd have to, and none of the players know you're FBI. Not McBright, not the coroner... nobody."
I turned to Leverick. "Can we really pull this off, Dalton?"
"Yes. I think we can. You set it up with The Henchmen that you have to study McBright's habits. When he comes and goes, shit like that. We'll get to McBright and have him vested before you hit him."
"Then what?"
"Then he gets announced DOA. The papers get their story. You get your proof for The Henchmen that the hit was made."
"Here's the deal," said Atwood. His loud, raspy voice was reminiscent of an old Untouchables episode. "Leverick, you make arrangements for a meeting at the Mayor's office. Include the District Attorney and the Police Commissioner. Samuels, you and Parkins are in charge of the medical team, death certificate, release forms for the body. Use your best people for this. Nobody knows about Martin. As far as all the other players are concerned, it's a witness relocation situation. I'll let the D.A., the Mayor, and Commissioner know we have a man under, and that this is pertinent to our case. Marty, you call me in two days for an update. Everyone set to go?"
Everyone nodded affirmatively. "What about McBright?" I asked.
"I'll handle him," said Leverick. "I'll offer to get all the charges dropped for the drug bust. Marty, you have to engineer a couple of drive-bys past McBright's house. Use one of the club's vehicles so he'll recognize it. If possible, take someone along who he may recognize as well. We'll get plenty of surveillance photos, if necessary, to show McBright. I'll convince him it's real."
"What about a wire, maybe a recorded conversation with one of the club's officers? That would help convince him," suggested Fred Parkins.
"No way," I said. "These guys are always checking each other for wires. If you don't come around for a couple of days they give you a big bear hug. Partially because they miss you, and partially because they want to make sure you didn't turn punk while you were gone and cut a deal with police or the DEA."
"Don't worry," said Leverick. "I'll have enough. You just make those drive-bys, Martin."
"I'll make 'em," I said. "Oh, shit... one other thing. They have one of their people working as a Police Administrator downtown. I recognized her at the party. She's probably been feeding them information for years. It's no wonder that every time the police go to serve a warrant the club member is nowhere to be found."
"Parkins, you handle that one," Atwood ordered. "Make sure she's not arrested yet. I don't want anything endangering this case, or Martin. Especially Martin." Atwood shot me a wink.
"You got it," answered Parkins. "I'll recommend they give her a transfer right away to a job with less access to police files. We can at least slow down their flow of information."
Atwood stood up. "Okay then, who wants pizza?"
I arrived at Mike's at about ten P.M. Dog and Iron Man were at the bar having a beer and bullshitting with the bartender. A member I hadn't met yet was playing pool in the back room with one of the locals. There were three women with them. One of them appeared to be his girlfriend. In between shots he would stop to tongue-kiss her and run a hand over her butt. There was no one sitting at The Henchmen's regular table. Since I wasn't a member yet, I couldn't sit there without an invitation. I ordered a beer and leaned against the wall to watch the pool game.
Counsel, Dog, and a member I hadn't met yet arrived at eleven. "Come on over, Doc," said Dog.
"Hey, Dog. How's it goin', man?" I sat down next to Counsel. Dog went to the pool room to bring the other member over. Iron Man was still at the bar.
"This is Smitty."
"Smitty," I said, as I shook his hand.
"Doc, Smitty used to be real close to Irish before he left the club," said Counsel. "He'll take you past his house so you can get started."
"I'd like to take a couple of days to watch his movements, who he lives with, you know."
"He lives with his old lady, that's all. Just Sandy and him in a three-room bungalow," said Smitty. Smitty looked like an old-timer. His colors were dirty and worn. He was thin, with huge veins on his tattooed arms. He had a Fu Manchu-style mustache and bushy eyebrows. All he needed was a hook, and he would have made a perfect pirate.
"Does he work?" I asked Smitty.
"Yeah, most times. He paints boats down at the marina."
"Good, we can take a cruise past his place tomorrow and check it out. Can we use one of the vans?"
"Sure," said Counsel. "Take the blue Ford. You can get the keys from Snake at the clubhouse tomorrow morning."
The rest of the night we spent drinking beer and shooting pool. I was lucky that Smitty had been willing to come along on the McBright thing from the beginning. I didn't even have to ask. I found out that night that Smitty had been with the club since the late six ties. He bragged about beating the shit out of two cops in Laconia, New Hampshire, back in 1979
. Laconia is the biggest bike run on the East Coast. It takes place every June, and over twenty thousand bikers attend. Smitty said the cops tried to give him a ticket for running a red light. He was willing to take the ticket, but when the cops asked him to peel his colors they went too far. It took six more cops to bring Smitty under control. He did eighteen months in jail for that. He referred to his stretch in prison as "the time I went on vacation."
Chapter 10
The RV needed a tune-up badly. It had been backfiring ever since Sam and Louise Ginsberg had left Albuquerque. "When are you going to get this junk pile fixed?" whined Louise, in between bites of her tuna melt.
"Come on, Lou, stop breaking my balls. After this run we'll have enough money to fix up this baby and party for a couple of months. Any more orange soda in the cooler?"
"I'll check," Louise sighed. She huffed and puffed as she maneuvered her five-foot-two, two-hundred-forty-eight-pound frame to the cabin. "Only root beer and cola!" she shouted.
"Give me a root beer." Louise warmed up her tuna melt in the microwave before struggling back to her seat. She handed Sam the can of root beer.
Louise and Sam had been married for over twenty years. Sam had worked as an accountant for a mob family in Vegas, and Louise had been a coat-check girl in one of the casinos. They were married the night they met. The Varrantino family controlled the hotel that Louise worked in. Sam worked for the Boracchis, a rival family, so Louise had to quit her job at The Pyramid. In 1973, when the FBI broke the back of the Boracchis, Sam did three years. He refused to testify against the family, in spite of an offer of amnesty and witness relocation for him and his wife.
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