While in prison he met an associate of The Henchmen. He set Sam up with the club after his release. He began as a distributor of drugs and weapons in the Los Angeles area. After a while he began making regular runs to major Eastern cities, with caches of marijuana and methamphetamine. Louise stayed home at first, but eventually became a partner. For the last six years they'd been making runs six to ten times a year between California, Chicago, and New York.
"This soda's piss-warm," complained Sam. "Remind me to get some ice when we get to Pedro's."
LAST GAS FOR 80 MILES—6 MILES AHEAD. The sign was so weather-beaten it blended in with the harsh, golden-brown background of the desert. Louise was sleeping, her head thrown back, snoring, her sandwich still in her hand. Sam turned up the volume on the tape deck to drown out her annoying snorts. His throat was sore from the desert heat, and his sweat-soaked T-shirt hugged the fat on his body like an extra layer of skin. With his stubby, hairy fingers he tried to adjust the air-conditioning controls. "Shit, it's hot as an oven out there, and this fucking thing won't pump out no more cool." He looked at the thermometer. The inside temperature was eighty-one degrees. He took another gulp of soda.
He steered carefully past Pedro's gas pump and stopped the camper next to the garage. There were two bikes parked under a sign that read PEDRO'S—GAS, FOOD AND DRINK. A young blond-haired woman, a little on the plump side, was soaping down the forks, handlebars, and wheel spokes. A mangy dog walked lazily toward the camper and lay down in the shade the bulky vehicle was now providing. "Wake up, Lou." Sam nudged her. "It's already after three. I want to be back on the road before five o'clock. Why don't you get the cabin ready?"
Louise just nodded. She smacked her lips a few times, swallowed, then frowned. "Any soda left in that can? My mouth tastes like a camel's ass."
"Just a sip." Sam handed her the warm, flat beverage.
As she awkwardly climbed out of the vehicle, her sandwich fell to the ground right in front of the panting dog. It gulped it down in one bite. "Fucking dog." Louise opened the padlock on the side door of the camper. The floor had been built up eight inches, to provide a false bottom that could conceal drugs for transport to the East. Louise stepped inside and began opening the clips that held the back wall onto the camper. When she was finished she moved to the outside of the camper and started to remove the screws that held the facade covering the opening to the storage compartment.
"Buenos tardes, Serior Ginsberg," said Pedro, a small-framed Mexican in his late forties. "Tacos today, muy especiales."
"Maybe later, Pedro, I'm a little rushed right now. Maybe I'll just grab one of these." Sam helped himself to a KitKat bar from the counter. As he peeled off the foil wrapper, he looked around Pedro's store. It never changes, he thought. The store was littered with car and motorcycle parts. With the exception of members of The Henchmen who might work on their bikes when they had business at Pedro's, the parts and garage were seldom used. Occasionally a motorist would happen by and need a fill-up, or a new fan belt and some water or coolant for the radiator. The old desert road wasn't traveled much anymore. In fact, it didn't even appear on any of the new maps.
Behind the counter were two soda coolers and some scantily stocked shelves, containing potato chips, cookies, soup cans, and other non-perishables. Pedro slept on a cot in the back room. This dilapidated service station was his home.
The back room contained a stove where he did all of his cooking—Mexican dishes mainly. Guaranteed to burn your taste buds and give you heartburn for two days. The stove had an exhaust that extended through the roof. Another pipe, barely noticeable, came up from the floor and joined the stove exhaust. The smell of fried beef and Mexican spices made the taste of the candy bar less enjoyable for Sam. As much as Sam loved to eat, he could never get used to Mexican food. "Okay, Pedro, let's go down."
"Ciertamente, señor." Pedro removed a poster from the wall next to his bed, a poster of Marlon Brando in the movie The Wild Ones. It revealed a numeric dial pad with a blinking red light. He punched in the numbers 9-9-2-2. There was a distinctive click, and a small section of the floor rose slightly. Pedro reached down and pulled the door open. Sam walked sideways down the stairs, his three-hundred-pound girth making it impossible for him to walk straight down. He huffed and puffed with every clumsy step. Pedro lowered the door and returned to his stove and his fried beef. The trapdoor automatically locked behind Sam.
Sam was now inside The Henchmen's drug-manufacturing lab. Unlike the dingy, disorganized shop above it, this underground room was the epitome of cleanliness and organization. It was almost square, measuring fourteen by thirteen feet. Four sets of fluorescent lights hung from the eight-foot ceiling. Sikati Kim, a U.S.-born Korean, sat at a large aluminum table, mixing the proper ratio of phenylacetone and N-methyl formamide. He would then cook the mixture for six hours to make the granular white methamphetamine.
Kim had been a freelance chemist in Los Angeles until three years ago, when The Henchmen had informed him that he would be their exclusive manufacturer. To ensure his cooperation they'd moved him to this secret lab, where he manufactured millions of dollars' worth of the drug each year. Although he was seemingly free to come and go as he pleased, he remained a prisoner of The Henchmen's ever-growing need for the drug.
Two members of the Los Angeles chapter were also in the lab—Arnold "Park" Parker and Little Vinney. They were bringing a supply of crank back into Los Angeles. They were also there to supply Sam and Louise for their run east and to record this month's transactions. As treasurer, Little Vinney kept the books for the club's drug operation. The club had sent him to an extensive course in business accounting and computer programming early in 1980 to bring the operation into the modern age. The computer base contained an extensive list of customers and drop-off points throughout the U.S. and Canada. If a name wasn't on that list, he or she didn't buy from The Henchmen. A name could be added to the list only if supplied by a chapter president. Chapter presidents communicated directly with the computer via a modem and telephone lines. Little Vinney was transmitting order confirmations to Houston, New York, Philadelphia, and New Jersey, complete with delivery date and pickup point. The confirmation order for New Jersey read MERCHANDISE ENROUTE—ETA N.J. TPK 14-99. The Paterson, New Jersey chapter would consult their code list and determine the exact location of the delivery point. Each city had over five delivery points that alternated at the discretion of the member in charge of distribution. This ensured the safety of the deliveries.
Park greeted Sam by the stairs. "Hey, Sammy. Pretty soon you won't be able to fit down those stairs." He patted Sam's huge stomach.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm gonna go on a diet… as soon as I lose some weight." Sam laughed, patting his belly.
"Some KitKat?"
"No thanks, Sam. Where's Louise?"
"She's getting the camper ready. We're a little behind schedule, and I want to get out of here as soon as possible."
"No prob, everything's ready to go." Park pointed to four rows of plastic bags. Each bag contained two pounds of methamphetamine. There were one hundred bags in all. "Your first stop is Chicago for twenty bags, then Philadelphia for forty, New Jersey for eight, and New York for the rest."
For the next forty minutes Park and Sam went over road maps, planning routes and timetables. Park would contact the other chapters and let them know the route Sam was taking into their area, and they would have the option of dispatching an escort when the camper was close to the drop-off site. This would be done for the security of the shipment, since many of the points of delivery were on the edges of dangerous neighborhoods.
"Okay, let's get started," said Sam.
"Here, Sam, here's your bread." Park handed Sam an envelope containing five thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills, his standard fee for a four-city run.
Park and Little Vinney carried the bags outside and began loading them under the floor of the camper. Louise was inside Pedro's kitchen, giving him advice on how to make his t
acos tastier. After the drugs had been loaded, Sam returned the paneled facades to the back of the camper and padlocked the side door.
"Come on, Lou, let's go." Sam beeped the horn. Louise appeared in the doorway with two of Pedro's tacos in her hand.
"I'm coming, goddammit, I'm coming." Some of the taco filling oozed out of the sides and fell to the ground as she scurried toward the camper, taking bites along the way.
"How can you eat that shit Pedro makes?"
"If I can suck your dick, I can eat this," answered Louise.
The couple laughed as they cruised back onto Route 71.
"Get me a soda, will ya, honey?"
Chapter 11
He woke at the same time every Saturday, six-fifteen A.M., happy as a child on Christmas morning. This was the day that Eddie "Popeye" Burns took his solo rides from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara. He'd ride for four hours, only stopping at a gas station to use the bathroom or have something to drink. That was the way it had been every Saturday for the last ten years. Unless he was in jail, or part of a major Henchmen run.
"Popeye? That you, honey?" mumbled his wife, Dierdre, as she placed a pillow over her head to block out the morning sunlight. Popeye said nothing. She went back to sleep. He pulled his road-beaten Levi's over his thin, well-toned legs and clasped his "Hooded Executioner" insignia belt buckle. Over his jeans went his leather chaps with Western fringes. Next his steel-toed, seventeen-inch-high leather boots, complete with cigarette pocket and knife-holder. It was already seventy-five degrees out, so a T-shirt would do it. Lastly, it was time to put on a biker's most prized possession, his colors. The leather vest always sat on the back of a chair, patch facing the bed. He carefully removed it and placed his arms through the holes. First right, then left. Then a slow twist of his body toward the mirror to view his coveted uniform.
Popeye was as proud of his patch today as he had been the day he got it fifteen years ago. He was now thirty-eight, but his body was as lean as that of a man of twenty. His huge forearms had earned him his nickname, and many opponents in barroom brawls and hamburger-stand scuffles had been sent into oblivion by his thunderous blows. He motioned a strike with his right elbow toward the mirror. He was pumped and ready to roll. He looked in on his eight-year-old daughter, Angel, then left the house.
Popeye always kept his bike covered in thick plastic, even though it was kept in the garage. A 1955 Harley-Davidson, with a 1957 panhead engine. Candy-red paint covered the frame and gas tank. It had a springer fork, and narrowed sixteen-inch ape handlebars. Ninety percent of the exposed metal was chrome-plated and shone like new. Popeye grabbed a rag off the workbench and cleaned a smudge off the side of the headlight. He carefully escorted his bike to the street, mounted it, primed the ignition, and kicked it over on the first try. "That's forty-two in a row," he said proudly. Popeye held The Henchmen record for the most starts on the first kick: sixty-one.
He throttled the engine a couple of times, then thundered down the street, grinning, the wind against his face. Only when he rode his bike was he truly at peace. The endless conversations in his head about the way things could be, should be, and might be suddenly came to a halt. The aliveness that in most respects he had cut himself off from since he was a child could be experienced again.
His pleasure trip was interrupted as he turned onto Route 44, a winding, seldom-traveled road. A dark gray van pulled to within inches of his rear wheel. Popeye accelerated to avoid a collision. "Fucking assholes!" yelled Popeye, as he gave the intruders the middle finger. The van accelerated once again, this time striking him. Popeye was forced over the embankment and into a ditch. He was thrown from the bike, smashing his head and back against the ground. The van stopped. Popeye bounced up, dazed and angered. He looked over at his broken-up hog, the engine still running, then up at the van.
"Cocksucker! I'll fuckin' kill this asshole!" Popeye started to make his way up the hill as the door on the passenger side of the van opened. Brian "Shooter" Riggs, the sergeant-at-arms for the Seattle chapter of The Outcasts, emerged with a shotgun in his hands. He met Popeye's face with the double-barreled weapon. Popeye stood still, staring down the twin holes. Joe "Skinny Joe" Walters appeared next to Shooter.
"All right, fuck-nuts, peel that fucking patch now!" demanded Skinny Joe.
Shooter said nothing. The wind was blowing his thin, scraggly hair in front of his dark sunglasses. He bit nervously on his lower lip as he cocked the hammers into position. "You heard the man, dipshit, lose the jacket!" he ordered.
Popeye looked disdainfully at Skinny Joe. He stepped forward, his nose almost touching the gun metal. "Take it off, asshole!" growled Shooter.
The barrel of the shotgun was starting to shake. Popeye took a step back.
"Fuck you, pussy. Pull the trigger, but you ain't getting this," said Popeye, tugging slightly on the collar of his vest. Shooter gave a painful smile and squeezed both barrels, ripping into Popeye's skull. The force of the blast sent Popeye down the hill, where he came to rest on his now stalled Harley. His body lay draped over the bike, his Henchmen patch in full view. The two Outcasts approached the body cautiously. Shooter lowered the weapon and stared at his victim. Skinny Joe began to remove Popeye's colors. "Nice leather vest. I'd like to—"
"Take your fucking hands off that vest!" Shooter demanded, as he kicked Skinny Joe in the rib cage. Skinny Joe crumpled over, a look of shock on his face.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, man? We came to pull his fucking patch! Let's pull it, and get the fuck out of here!"
"You dumb, skinny shit! I should blow your fucking head off too! You don't know nothing, man! He had balls enough not to give it up. More balls than you'll ever have. Get in the fuckin' van! This dude gets buried with his patch." The warriors left without their scalp. Popeye lay lifeless on his metal horse. It began to rain.
The front doorbell rang a half-hour before Kevin McBright had to wake up for work. "Shit. Motherfucker," he said as he glanced at the clock. "It's only five-thirty. Another fucking half-hour before I have to get up. This fucking shit-for-brains is gonna get his ass kicked." He threw on some dungarees, grabbed the baseball bat he kept by the bed, headed for the door and threw it wide open.
"You dumb motherfuc—"
"Kevin McBright? Dalton Leverick. FBI." Leverick flashed his badge.
"Look, man, my trial ain't started yet. I don't gotta to talk to no motherfucker with a badge about nothing. So get the fuck out of my face, before I shove that badge up your ass!"
"I need to speak with you, Kevin. It concerns your and your wife's safety," Leverick said in a low, serious voice.
"Listen, man," said McBright, pointing the bat like a huge index finger. "First of all, my name is 'Irish.' Only my mother calls me 'Kevin.' Second, I can handle any trouble that comes my way, so fuck off."
"Ten minutes... Irish." Leverick held both hands out in front of him. "Ten minutes, then I'll fuck off if you want me to."
McBright stepped aside, allowing room for Leverick to pass. "This better not be more fed bullshit."
Leverick and McBright walked over to an old, dusty sofa. Leverick sat down on the edge of the couch. McBright sat on the coffee table directly facing him. He rested his hand on the end of the baseball bat, tapping his chin against his knuckles, sometimes lifting the bat and tapping the floor.
"Your old club has put a contract out on you. They think you're going to roll over on them because it will get you off the drug bust."
"Bullshit! Bullshit, man!" McBright stood up. The bat fell to the floor. Leverick remained calm, watching McBright carefully, knowing the man could reach down for the baseball bat at any moment. Leverick moved his hand slightly toward the inside of his jacket, hoping McBright wouldn't get nutty on him. If he had to shoot him, he could blow the whole operation. He could see it all: paperwork, inquiries. Leverick continued to reason with him.
"I can prove it, Irish. Right now," said Leverick in a smooth, steady tone.
"How the hell you gonna
prove that bullshit?"
By this time Sandy was awake and pressing her ear against the bedroom door. Experience had taught her not to interfere in her husband's business. She touched the scar on her upper lip, and thought back to the night in Mike's bar when Irish had smacked her for offering her opinion. Although she had been defending her husband's position in that argument with Counsel, McBright told her that Henchmen women never question and never interfere in a man's affairs. Eight stitches and six years later, she still remembered that lesson.
"Come with me," said Leverick. He pulled a small pair of binoculars from his coat pocket. "Let's go around back and you can see for yourself." He led McBright out the back door and around by the front porch. From there he could get a clear view of the Henchmen van parked almost - two blocks up the street. "Look through these." Leverick handed him the binoculars. "Look at that blue van about a block and a half down the street on the left-hand side. Recognize anyone?"
"Shit!" exclaimed a surprised McBright. "It's fuckin' Smitty! Smitty, you fuckin' pirate! I don't know the other dude. You?"
"I know of him. He used to ride with the Satan's Saints in Canada. They call him Dr. Death. He's the trigger man on your hit."
"We'll see about that shit," said McBright, his face now red with anger. He dropped the binoculars to the ground and headed toward the rear of the bungalow. Leverick stumbled to pick them up and followed McBright. McBright went to the bedroom and started loading his rifle. Sandy sat on the edge of the bed, naked. She made a feeble attempt to pull the sheets over her body when Leverick entered the room.
"Irish, wait, man, this is stupid!" pleaded Leverick, his voice soft but intense.
"I'll blow both those mothers away right now! Move aside!" His eyes were wide, his breathing short and quick. Leverick remained in the bedroom doorway.
"Wait... there's a better way. A way that will guarantee your safety and keep you out of the joint." Leverick shot a glance at Sandy. She remained seated on the edge of the bed, her firm breasts exposed.
Deep Cover Page 10