"I didn't do nuffin. What you boderin' me fo?" asked Jerry.
JJ Smith turned off the engine, walked to the left side of the car, and stood, arms folded, while Billy Ray continued to badger Jerry.
"Look here, you stupid niggah, you ain't got no choice in the matter! You gonna deal for me at school or you gonna get yo ass busted!" threatened Billy Ray.
"You doan scare me, Billy Ray!" said a tearful Jerry. "Da Henchmen are my friends! They kick yo butt good!"
Billy Ray laughed out loud. "You think those white motherfuckers give a shit about a little niggah like you? Boy, if this was Alabama or Mississippi, they'd call themselves the KKK instead of The Henchmen! You are a dumb-ass kid, ain't ya?"
Billy Ray had good reason to believe The Henchmen hated blacks. His brother-in-law, Barry Roosevelt, had done time in Folsom Prison. He used to tell Billy Ray stories at Sunday afternoon barbecues. Stories about jailed Henchmen and other bikers who would quickly align themselves with white supremacy groups like the Brothers of Arian and the American Nazi Party. In fact, a Canadian motorcycle club called The Devil's Chosen had been denied access to a Henchmen-sponsored run because they had a black member. Billy Ray was confident that The Henchmen would never interfere with his recruiting process for young dealers.
"I won't do it, Billy Ray! You're a bad man, and I hate you!" Jerry started swinging his arms wildly, trying desperately to punch Billy Ray. JJ Smith, still leaning against the car, laughed at Jerry's futile effort. Jerry's mother, returning from work, spotted the men confronting her son and began to run up the street.
"You let go of my boy!" she screamed, dropping her bag of groceries as she ran. She was intercepted by JJ Smith, who threw one arm around her waist as she struggled and screamed at Billy Ray, Windows started to open, and neighbors began to poke their curious heads out to see what the commotion was all about. The yelling came to an abrupt halt with the thunderous roar of four Henchmen motorcycles turning up the street. Jerry kicked Billy Ray in the shin and bolted across the street to The Henchmen's clubhouse as the four bikers pulled up. "I'm gonna laugh when they smack that little niggah in his face and send him home crying," said Billy Ray.
Billy Ray watched anxiously as Daniel "Dirty Dan" Goldman stood listening to Jerry's whimpering explanation. Billy Ray's anxiety turned quickly to genuine concern as the hulking six-foot-four, two-hundred-ninety-pound biker gently patted Jerry on the head and shot a menacing glance across the street. Dirty Dan clicked his fingers in the direction of his cohorts and pointed toward Billy Ray and JJ. The four bikers began to walk slowly across the street.
"Shit, JJ, let's get the fuck outta here, man! Those fuckers are coming over here!" said Billy Ray, as he leaped into the back of the limo. JJ immediately let go of Jerry's mom, who ran to greet her son halfway across the road. Before they could get the limo rolling, two Henchmen, Bobby "Bones" Blackwell and Dirty Dan, climbed into the backseat with Billy Ray. Henry "Grease" Bartley, a jolly-looking sort with a huge belly and hands as big as a gorilla's, stood by the driver's window. Only The Henchmen insignia and the bottom rocker of his colors, which read NEW JERSEY in bold black letters on a white background, were visible through the glass. The Henchmen used to have city names as the bottom rocker of their colors, until Counsel gave instructions to all national chapters to strip the city names and use only the state. Counsel figured that in states with multiple chapters it would be harder for the police to narrow down their suspects when Henchmen colors were spotted.
The fourth Henchman, Edward "Stoned Eddie" LeCamp, followed JJ into the front seat and sat beside him, one arm over his shoulder. "Hiya, pal! Nice day, eh?" said the Canadian-born biker. Stoned Eddie had been a member of the Montreal Sinners before moving to the U.S. He'd been a member of The Henchmen since 1982. Henchmen lore had it that Stoned Eddie had killed three Outcasts by beating them to death with a motorcycle kick-stand during a rumble in Binghamton, New York. This feat earned him his Henchmen colors, as well as the vice-presidency of the Paterson, New Jersey chapter two months later. Stoned Eddie placed the cold steel of a six-inch hunting knife to JJ's throat.
"You just sit tight, eh, and maybe I won't cut your neck. Okay, brother?"
JJ said nothing. Just a few short gasps for air, and a wide-eyed look that begged for mercy.
Bones pulled a .25-caliber pistol from his boot and held it to Billy Ray's temple. Billy Ray gasped, held his breath for a moment, then let it out in short, stuttering bursts. "What the fuck you want with me, man? I ain't done shit to you," said Ray, his voice high-pitched. Dirty Dan held up a five-inch combat bayonet in front of Ray's face. "See this, you stupid nigger? This is the steel that's gonna cut off your balls." He slowly moved the blade down Billy Ray's body and stuck the point lightly against his crotch. The smell of human excrement filled the air as Ray's sphincter muscle loosened.
"Oh shit, man," said Bones. "This motherfucker shit his pants." Dirty Dan didn't laugh. He leaned over and spoke softly to Billy Ray. "This is my block, shithead. Don't fuck with anybody. Clear?" Ray nodded, out of breath, embarrassed, and beaten. "Now get the fuck off my street."
The limousine drove off as the four Henchmen returned to their bikes. Dirty Dan turned and met Mrs. Robinson's grateful eyes. He nodded. She took her son by the hand. "Let's go, boy. You have homework to do before you can watch TV."
***
Joseph Famantia bit his nails as he waited outside Don Toritelli's office. His right-hand man, Mario Calvecci, waited with him, sharing his nervousness. They both knew Toritelli's temper well, and they were the bearers of bad tidings. "Give me another smoke, Mario. I hope he's ready to see us soon. I want to get this over with."
"You and me both," said Calvecci. "What do you think he's gonna do?"
"Don't know. He's gonna want to get even real bad. Real bad." Famantia brushed some cigarette ashes off his tie. "You know, Mario, a cunt in Barbados bought me this tie. You like it?"
"Sure thing, boss. I always like a yellow tie with a blue jacket."
"Think so?"
"Yeah."
Both men turned toward the mahogany doors as Toritelli's consigliere, Jack MacDonald, emerged from the office. "Don Toritelli will see you now, gentlemen," said the young lawyer. Calvecci stood by the door as Famantia moved forward. Famantia stopped three feet from Toritelli's desk.
"Don Toritelli, I'm sorry to have disturbed you this evening."
"Tell me, Joey, what is so important that it cannot wait?" said Toritelli, his Italian accent thick and his voice deep. For a man of sixty-seven he stood tall and strong. His gray hair was well groomed. His dark, sunken eyes hid many of his wrinkles, and although some said he never smiled, he still possessed all of his teeth.
"It's Angelo, Don. He's... he's dead."
"Dead? Who? How?"
"They hit the lounge. Tonight. Some kind of explosion. We're not sure who, but we think..." Famantia hesitated. He had set up the deal. He knew Angelo wouldn't give The Henchmen their twenty G's, but he never thought they'd do anything about it. Never thought for a minute they'd have the nerve to hit a Toritelli-owned establishment. "We think it's the motorcycle club. The Henchmen."
"Why?" inquired Toritelli, his face starting to redden.
"One of the cocktail waitresses survived. She told Mario that two of The Henchmen argued with Angelo minutes before. She said she thought Angelo was going to shoot them right there in the lounge."
Toritelli's eyes widened and he began panting. "Dead!" he bellowed, as he pounded the top of his oak desk.
"Dead! Dead! Dead! Dead!" he shouted, as he hammered the desk again and again. "I want all those fucking slimy, hippie bastards dead! I want that fucking clubhouse of theirs burned to the ground! Take a hundred men if you have to! I don't want a single Henchman left alive in this goddamn city!" He shook his fist at the air, then bit his forefinger as he growled away his anger. He fell back into his chair. Exhausted, he motioned for Famantia and Calvecci to leave.
"What do we do first?" asked Ca
lvecci, as the two men left the office building at 18th and Broad.
"We put the word out. Only guys who are in line to get made. Everybody gets their bones after we hit them." Famantia knew that many of the old blood might not be up for a hit on The Henchmen. He also knew that the younger guys would be willing to accept the job. For a guy to "get made" was the Mob equivalent of a Henchman getting his colors. Ever since FBI agents like Joseph Pistone had infiltrated the Mafia in the late seventies, mob families across the United States had tightened up on procedures for accepting new members. Now you had to "earn your bones" by making a hit. Famantia figured that young men, hungry to become members of the Toritelli family, would jump at this chance to bring down The Henchmen.
"Talk to Ricky Moose. He's got the best line on available guys."
"When do we hit them, Joey?" asked Calvecci.
"Not sure. We need to find out when they have their club meetings. I'll have one of our people inside the police department check it out. I'm sure they have files on these guys. Let's meet at Eddie's tomorrow afternoon. Three o'clock."
"Sure thing, Joey. Three o'clock."
Calvecci walked down 18th Street to catch the subway at Market. Famantia hailed a cab.
He tapped the flashlight against his hand to give it some more juice. "Damn, I should have put new fucking batteries in this," grumbled Peter "Pete" Jacobs, as he made his way through the dark tunnel underneath Front Street in North Philly. He was looking for the junction box that tied in the buildings between Westmoreland and Lippincott to the Philadelphia Power Company electrical network. "Come on, baby, just a few more minutes," Jacobs pleaded with his fading light.
As he came up to the rusted, metal cover, the light died again. One more whack against his hand gave him enough light to read the tags near the terminals: 1118 FRONT STREET. "That's it," said a pleased Jacobs. He then removed the rubber-handled wrench from his tool bag and proceeded to loosen two of the hot wires that provided the building with electrical service. Once the bolts had been loosened, Jacobs removed the wires from the terminals and tapped the circuit opened and closed six times. He repeated this procedure a half-dozen times within ten minutes. "This ought to give them a little flicker," he said. He then returned the wires to their secured position and tightened the bolts. The flashlight held out until he had made his way through the tunnel and back onto the street.
Chapter 14
Smitty was already waiting outside my apartment when I woke up. From my window I could see him bopping his head up and down to the music from the van's stereo. Today was the day. The day I was to hit McBright and earn my Henchmen colors. I had telephoned Base I the night before to tell them the hit was on. Molly assured me that everything was set. Dalton had set it up with McBright. He would walk through his door at six-thirty A.M. and I would shoot him in the chest point-blank with a .22-caliber pistol. Three shots to the heart. His vest would save his life. I wondered if Dalton had told him that the shots might still knock him on his ass and leave a black-and-blue mark the size of a basketball. I tucked the pistol in my belt and went out to meet Smitty.
"Morning, Doc. Nice day to off somebody, ain't it?" said Smitty. His eyes were bloodshot from too much speed and not enough sleep.
"Sure is, Smitty," I said, as I tapped the pistol in my belt.
"Oh, about the hardware, man. Counsel says he wants you to use this. It makes more of a statement." He reached behind him and pulled out a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun. Oh, shit. At point-blank range, the blast from the shotgun may rip McBright's face off. Even with the bulletproof vest he may not survive the hit at that range. What the hell am I going to do now?
"Hey, not for nothin'," I said. "I kinda like the .22. I feel comfortable with it. Ya know, it's sort of like a baseball player and his favorite bat." I tried to make light of it.
"Look, man, I hear ya. It's Counsel—he's real uptight lately. One of our brothers was killed yesterday. Popeye. Know 'im?"
"No. What happened?"
"Not sure. We think he was hit by The Outcasts. Counsel's checking into it. He's going nuts over it. Just use the fucking double-barrel, man. No big deal, right?"
"No big deal." I clicked open the barrel and looked at the two shells in the chamber. I had to make it seem like no big thing. "Nice," I said, as I closed the chamber and held the weapon in my hands, looking it over. The barrel was sawed off to within two inches of the fore-end. This was done for two reasons. First, it made a powerful weapon easy to conceal. Second, for a close-range hit, the shorter the barrel, the wider the spread of buckshot.
I was tempted to lay the barrel across Smitty's temple and arrest him right there. We could still bring down a lot of Henchmen with what we had so far. But at the very same moment I said to myself, No. I'm in this too deep. I'm gonna play it out. I'll figure out something.
The ride to McBright's took twenty minutes. Smitty and I spoke about bikes, pussy, and guns. His knowledge of weapons was impressive. At times I had to recall my training classes at the academy, and the countless hours talking with Roger Wolfe about his gun collection, just to keep up with him.
When we arrived at McBright's, Smitty pulled over opposite the house, just slightly past his doorway. "This is it, Doc. Six-twenty."
"Time to rock and roll," I said as I leaped out of the van, the shotgun concealed under my jacket. I quickly crossed the street and crouched beside the wooden porch to McBright's house. I looked at my watch. Six twenty-three. He would start to open the door any minute now. I would leap to the doorway and blast both barrels into his chest. I tried to think fast. How was I going to make Smitty think I'd shot him, without really killing him with the spreading buckshot?
Maybe I could kick him in the chest, knocking him back into the house, out of sight. I could then empty the gun into the ceiling or floor, giving Smitty the sound effects without the visual. We would have to let McBright in on the fact that it was a phony hit. No good, I thought. Then it hit me.
I clicked open the barrel and removed the right shell. My back was to Smitty, so my activities were out of sight. I removed the crimp from the shell with my teeth and emptied half the buckshot onto the ground. I quickly recapped the shell and placed it back into the barrel. I had barely gotten the barrel closed when I heard the door latch open.
I leaped onto the porch and pulled the trigger of the right barrel. McBright fell back into the doorway. I could hear McBright's wife screaming. There was no sign of Leverick. With my back still to Smitty I pulled the left trigger, this time aiming toward the wall. McBright was barely conscious. He wouldn't remember the second shot. I would leave it to Dalton to explain away the shot on the wall. That's if McBright even thought to ask about it. I turned and ran across to the van. The streets were still empty, except for a passing motorist who had to brake to avoid me as I ran across the street.
"What the fuck happened?" asked Smitty as we drove off.
"I let him have a single barrel first. I aimed slower with number two. It made sure of him. Real sure. Dig?"
"Yeah. I got it, Doc. Nice job. Let's get some breakfast."
Dalton Leverick darted from the bedroom, Sandy McBright at his heels.
"Oh my God!" she cried. Leverick knelt next to McBright and placed two fingers on the side of his neck. He lifted his eyelid and looked at his pupils. "Dilated," he said. "He's in shock."
"You fucking bastard!" shouted Sandy. She knelt next to Leverick, gently touching her old man's forehead. "You fucked him up! You said the vest would protect him! What happened?"
"He'll be fine, Sandy." Leverick placed a hand on Sandy's shoulder. "Try to stay calm. The blast from the shotgun caused this temporary shock. I've seen it before. He'll be okay." Leverick unhooked a small transmitter from his belt and pulled open the antenna.
"Bad Boy, Bad Boy, this is the Baker, come in, over."
"This is Bad Boy. Go ahead, Baker, over."
"We're ready to make the delivery, over."
"Be there in two, out."
&nb
sp; Leverick returned the device to his belt. Several long seconds passed before McBright started to come to.
"What the fuck?" said a groggy McBright. "My chest feels like I got hit with a sledgehammer."
"That was a shot from a twelve-gauge. We're real lucky. The gun must have recoiled hard. The second shot ended up in your wall." Leverick stood up and pulled off his jacket as he heard the siren of the approaching ambulance.
"Sandy," said Leverick. "I want you to wait five minutes and then call the police at the number I gave you. Everything's arranged. We'll take Irish to the hospital. We've had a government physician temporarily assigned to St. Katherine's Medical Center. He'll sign the death certificate. We'll switch toe tags with a John Doe who'll be sent to the morgue with his new name, Kevin McBright."
Molly Samuels and Fred Parkins walked through the door rolling a stretcher, both wearing EMS uniforms. Parkins tossed Leverick a jacket and cap. He put them on and assisted McBright onto the stretcher.
"Sandy," he said. "Meet us at the medical center after the police finish questioning you. You remember what we went over last night? You know what to tell them?"
Sandy nodded.
"Then what?" asked McBright. Parkins buckled the straps around McBright's chest and legs. Samuels then held open the front door as Parkins and Leverick began to roll the stretcher out.
"Then we take both of you to a safe house, until we can work out your new identity and figure out where we're going to place you," said Leverick.
"Do we get a choice?" asked McBright.
"Quiet, Irish," said Leverick, patting him on the head. "You're supposed to be dead, remember?
Deep Cover Page 12