Deep Cover

by Edward Bungert

  Fenway pulled ahead of Snake and pointed to the side of the road. Snake nodded, and both bikers pulled their machines over and turned off the engines.

  "What's up, Dog?" asked Snake.

  "That bar we passed, about a mile back."

  "Yeah?"

  "There was a van in front of it. I think I recognized it. Looks like an Outcast's. The one they brought to Sturgis last year."

  "Let's check it out," said Snake.

  The bikers returned to the vicinity of the tavern and discreetly placed their bikes about fifty yards away from the entrance. They walked to the window and peered in.

  "Look," said Dog. "It's that prick Riggs and that skinny fuck."

  "You think they did Popeye?"

  "Don't know man, but shit, what the fuck are they doing down this way anyhow? I mean... we got a vendetta, right? We gotta move on 'em, right?"

  Not all Henchmen took the club vendetta as seriously as Dog. Those who did would not let a member of the Outcasts get away alive, no matter what the circumstances.

  "What's our next move?" asked Snake.

  Dog looked' around. A young boy was walking up the road, swinging a stick back and forth.

  "That kid, he's the ticket. Give me ten bucks." Snake complied, and Dog approached the boy as he neared the two bikers.

  "You want to make ten bucks, kid?"

  "How?" said the boy, looking inquisitively at Dog. Dog removed his amber-tinted sunglasses and made eye contact with the boy.

  "Just go into that bar and yell as loud as you can, `Outcasts are a scumbag club and suck Japanese dick.' " Dog knew this would rile them. One thing all outlaw bikers share is a common disdain for the Japanese. Bikers have been known to set foreign cars on fire at major motorcycle events. Anyone coming to one of these events as a spectator must use caution if he owns a Toyota or a Honda. The two bikers waited as the boy went inside the bar.

  Within seconds the boy came running out, past Snake and Dog and then around the back of the building. The two Outcasts burst through the door, in search of the offender. Riggs and Skinny Joe stood for a moment, motionless, as they realized they were now face-to-face with The Henchmen.

  "So long, scumbag," said Snake, as he squeezed the trigger on his .44 Magnum. Riggs fell dead to the ground with a bullet in the middle of his forehead. Skinny Joe instantly raised his hands above his head.

  "Wasn't me! Shooter did him! Fuckin' Shooter! Not me, man!" cried Skinny Joe.

  Dog removed his knife from his boot and threw it straight into Skinny Joe's throat. Blood spouted from his neck as his arms shot straight out to the sides, his whole body convulsing. Then he dropped, his body lying across Riggs'. Dog walked over and reached down for his knife. The blade made a squishing sound as he removed it. He wiped the blood on his pants and placed the knife back in his boot.

  Some of the patrons of the tavern started to exit to view the commotion. Snake and Dog ran to their bikes and took off in a cloud of dust. They had turned their vests inside out, so no one would recognize their colors. No one except the boy had seen their faces. Ten dollars richer, he would be nowhere in sight when the county sheriff arrived.

  As they sped down the road, Snake would occasionally remove one hand from the bars and extend both feet to the side, mocking the manner in which Skinny Joe had convulsed before he dropped. Both men would laugh, as their taste for death sent adrenaline rioting through their bodies. Both were wired, fearless, mean-spirited. No regrets about the murder of Riggs and Walters. Just excitement.

  The two bikers slowed down as they approached a vehicle on the side of the road. An elderly woman, about seventy, sat on the driver's side of a tan 1967 Rambler, as her husband tinkered with the engine. She couldn't see him through the raised hood, but would turn the key to no avail when he shouted instructions to her. She spotted the two Henchmen in her rearview mirror. Oh no, she thought to herself, my worst fear is about to come true! Here we are, two elderly people, helpless, alone.

  Her husband, unaware of the bikers' presence, continued to trifle with the engine. The woman's heart rate soared as she watched them approach the car. She tried to speak, to warn her husband, but she could not. She was paralyzed with fear. The two bikers passed her on either side of the car, converging on her husband. Seconds later, Dog opened the door and reached toward her.

  "Excuse me, ma'am," he said as he turned the key. The car started instantly. "I told your husband to have that carburetor cleaned as soon as possible."

  She sat in the car in disbelief as the Henchmen rode away.

  "Move over, dear," said her husband. He took his place behind the wheel as she maneuvered herself to the passenger side. "What nice young men."

  Chapter 15

  "How many?"

  "I'm thinking, I'm thinking!"

  "Goddammit, Mario, how long are you going to take?" said Famantia.

  "All right, all right! Give me two, Eddie." Eddie Farcone complied.

  "Now maybe we can get on with it!" said Famantia, slightly agitated.

  "What do you say?" asked Calvecci.

  "Twenty," said Farcone.

  "I'll see it," said Famantia eagerly, "and raise you ten."

  "I'm out." Calvecci folded his cards and crossed his arms.

  "Let's have it," said Farcone.

  "Pair of ladies and a pair of twos."

  "Shit. You lucky fuck. That's six in a row."

  "What can I say, Eddie? My momma raised me right."

  Eddie Farcone pushed himself away from the table. "Let's take a break. Another round?" The two men nodded their acceptance and Falcone grabbed the bottle of Johnnie Walker from the shelf. He poured Famantia's first. "You know, Joey, we had a little electrical problem here."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. Last night we lost power a couple of times. Everything went black. We had a game going back here, and out front was packed. The girls brought in over five grand. Johnny said he was going to keep the place open even if he had to use fucking candles on the girls' tits."

  "So what happened?"

  "Nothin'. Some guy came from Philly Electric this morning. He said the wire to the meter was loose. I guess Johnny called them."

  Famantia pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket. "Okay, let's talk about the Henchmen hit. Did you talk to Ricky Moose, Mario?"

  "Yeah. Moose can have forty guys. Needs twenty-four hour's notice."

  "Good... good. I found out that The Henchmen meet day after tomorrow. By about nine o'clock, the entire Philadelphia chapter should be there. I got ten guys all set to go. Eddie?"

  "Five. Maybe more."

  "That should do it. Hell, there's only about twenty of them."

  "What about getting into the clubhouse?" Farcone returned to his seat at the table.

  "It shouldn't be too hard. My man at the police department tells me there's some Puerto Rican schmuck doing time who owns the house to the left. On the right-hand side there's just some old lady living alone. I'll have two of my guys go into her house early. We'll lock her in a closet or some shit. The houses are attached, so we just gotta worry about the front, back, and rooftops."

  "Ricky Moose says he's got an explosives man if we need him," added Calvecci.

  "We might. We can blow a flicking hole right through the wall from one of the other houses if all else fails." Famantia smiled as he made the statement. His flabby chin expanded as he sunk his neck into his chest. He looked menacing enough, but inside he was filled with apprehension. We'd better not miss, he thought. I'm on the line this time. If I fail, I know what the consequences will be.

  "Come on, ante up," said Eddie.

  "I'm in. How about you, boss? Boss! Jesus, you're a million miles away. You in?"

  Famantia threw a chip in the pot.

  We were gathered tightly around the television. Iron. Man was leaning so far over me I was practically supporting him on my back. Counsel fiddled with the fine tuning. "Come on, Counsel!" pleaded Little Vinney. "I can't see fucking through you!"


  "Fuck you, man. Suck my dick," said Counsel jokingly as he moved away from the set.

  The four of us waited patiently in Counsel's office for the six o'clock news to begin. News of McBright's death had to appear on television or in an article in one of the major papers. I shared their anticipation. I kept wondering to myself, Did it go off smoothly? Did they get McBright's death certificate done? Did McBright really get killed? Although I had let some of the shot out of that shell, I had hit him pretty hard. Counsel stood up, hesitated, then moved to his desk, as the newswoman began the details of the shooting—and death—of Kevin McBright. Atwood had done it. That slick son of a bitch. The team had actually pulled it off.

  The segment ended. Without missing a beat, Counsel handed me a new leather vest, complete with Henchmen colors. He kissed me on the lips and hugged me.

  "Way to go, Doc! You're a Henchman now, brother! Ride free and die hard!"

  "Thanks, man," I said.

  I accepted similar congratulations from Iron Man and Vinney. We were interrupted by the ringing of Counsel's phone. The TV news continued as he took the call.

  When he'd hung up, Counsel looked concerned. For a moment, he stood silent. His huge, tattooed arms were folded tightly, his brow creased.

  "What is it?" asked Iron Man.

  "It's Philadelphia. That was Whitey on the phone. They're planning to hit the clubhouse tomorrow night."

  "Who?" I said.

  "We had a little misunderstanding with some business associates of ours—the Toritellis. One of our guys in Philadelphia—Pete, what a fuckin' genius!— he planted a listening device in the back room of a Toritelli bar. He heard them planning the whole fuckin' thing."

  "What do we do? Go out there?" asked Vinney.

  "No. Whitey says he's got it handled. He talked to the Paterson chapter. They're only two hours from Philadelphia. There'll be twenty of them there tomorrow afternoon. With almost twenty brothers in his own chapter, he'll have more than enough power to defend the clubhouse. One thing..." Counsel looked at me. "Dirty Dan needs someone to make a pickup for him."

  Counsel sat behind his desk, lit a cigarette, and leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head, the cigarette dangling from his mouth. His eyes never left mine.

  "Doc, I think this one's for you."

  "Sure, man. What do I have to do?" I said.

  "Tomorrow, after Popeye's funeral. Fly out to Newark, New Jersey. Rent a car, and make the pickup for Dirty Dan. We sent him some crank from our lab in the desert. A couple of people in an RV who make deliveries for us on a regular basis. This one's gonna be made tomorrow night. The meet is scheduled for..." He spun around in his chair and turned on the computer. A late-model IBM PC sat on the credenza behind his desk. After a moment he punched a few keys. "Ten P.M. At the turnpike. A rest stop near Exit 14."

  Very impressive. These guys had all their business down on computers. We had known they were organized, but we'd never dreamed they were this well put together. A central manufacturing lab and a mobile delivery unit that traveled the country, supplying all the other chapters with pure crank. All kept track of on Counsel's computer.

  I must have looked visibly impressed, because Counsel seemed to eat it up. I could tell by the way he spun around in his chair and pecked away at the keyboard, as if to say "Wallah! Nothin' to it!" He worked hard in some respects to maintain the club's troglodyte image. Underneath, the club was being run by a very shrewd operator.

  "I'll call Dirty Dan tonight, and give you the rest of the details tomorrow," said Counsel.

  Little Vinney stood up. "But tonight is Doc's night. Let's get downstairs and party."

  The four of us left Counsel's office and went down to the main floor. I had barely stepped through the door when Iron Man tackled me and threw me to the floor. His three-hundred-some-odd-pound frame nearly crushed my chest. He kissed me while the other members, women, and associates howled. His wet, foul-smelling mouth, redolent of stale beer and cigarettes, made my stomach lurch. He emptied his beer bottle on my face and rubbed the warm brew through my hair. Before I could clear my eyes, Iron Man placed Pam, the club's biggest, sluttiest mama, in front of him and on top of my face. I started to gag as she moved her raunchy-smelling crotch up and down on my nose and lips. The more I wondered about how many guys had fucked her that night, the sicker I felt. I was trapped. Any resistance would be a slap in the face to my new brothers. My brothers—who were hell-bent on showing me a good time to welcome me into the club.

  After ten minutes I felt the relief of Iron Man's girth lifting from my body. Pam, meanwhile, continued with her attempts to suffocate me. Without losing a stroke, she began to unfasten my belt buckle. She took my prick into her mouth and began to suck vigorously. Despite my stomach's unsettled condition, my body began to respond. My prick hardened in her mouth as she continued her efforts. I started to forget her offensive smell, getting lost in the sensation. People started chanting: "Doc, Doc, Doc, Doc! Ride his face and suck his cock!" They kept it up until I finally climaxed. Pam, along with several other women who fell into the category of "common property," returned to whoring themselves with the other members.

  I had barely gotten my fly zipped when Iron Mari and Counsel lifted me to my feet and threw me across the room. Other members began punching and kicking me in the back, chest, and head. This wasn't a beating. Just a friendly welcome. The pounding stopped suddenly. Everyone's attention turned to Counsel.

  "Now, my brothers. We officially welcome Dr. Death to the club." He held out a five-gallon metal bucket. "In this bucket is grease and oil from oh so many oil changes. But it's not yet complete, brothers. Gather round, gather round, and add to the mixture the missing, essential ingredient."

  The other members huddled around the bucket that Counsel had placed on the floor. They took turns pissing wildly in the pail, half of them too drunk to aim properly. Iron Man helped me to my feet. I was dazed. A small cut had opened over my left eye. Iron Man held my arms as Counsel approached, bucket in hand. Counsel emptied the entire contents of the pail over my head and back. The place went wild. I was blinded for a moment by the mixture of grease and piss. What the fuck am I doing here? I wondered. No operation is worth this shit.

  I wiped my eyes and stood there for a moment, dazed and confused. I figured there wasn't much else they could do to me, so I thought I'd better look like I was enjoying this horror show. I let out a big yelp, raced across the room, and grabbed a bottle of Scotch off the table. I guzzled a quarter of the bottle while my compatriots urged me on. If I was blind drunk, I would have a good excuse for not participating in any further bizarre actions.

  Counsel interceded between guzzles. "Gather round, brothers!" he announced sonorously. "It's time to recite The Henchmen creed!" Oh no, I thought. What's next? Counsel, Iron Man, and about six other members started to recite:

  "A Henchman is the ultimate biker.

  A Henchman never backs down.

  A Henchman is a great fuck.

  A Henchman never gives up his colors.

  A Henchman is always right."

  Counsel put his hands on my shoulders.

  "Doc?" he said, slurring his words slightly. "Do you swear to lif your life as a Henchman? Never backing down? Never..." He took another gulp of beer. "Never fucking over a brother? Always keeping the honor of the club's colors?"

  "Fuck, yeah," I said, as I raised the bottle of Scotch in the air, trying to figure out what having integrity and brains had ever done for my miserable life.

  "Fuckin'-A-Yes!" added Iron Man sharply. "Henchmen forever! Forever Henchmen!"

  I spent the next couple of hours getting as drunk as I possibly could. Around midnight Dog and Snake arrived. Word quickly spread that they had snuffed two Outcasts that afternoon, on a return trip from the truck stop in Brawley. They said they were certain these two Outcasts were the ones who had gotten to Popeye.

  I felt almost pleased. Although it's rarely acknowledged openly, most agents feel a
certain dark delight when one member of the underworld kills another. One less bad guy for us to worry about.

  It wasn't long before Dog cornered me. "Congratulations!" he said heartily. He kissed me and gave me a hug. "Hey, Doc, what say we go downtown next week and get your Henchmen tattoo?"

  "Sure, Dog. Whatever." I turned toward the mirror at the far corner of the clubhouse to get a look at the back of my vest. Henchmen colors, I thought. Goddamn Henchmen colors. Then I laughed to myself. It's more like the colors of Judas. That's me, the Judas goat—accepted as one of their own, my only purpose to lead them to slaughter.

  "I'm gonna go find something to fuck. See you later, Doc."

  Dog's comment made me think of Christy. I wondered about her, where she was, if she was all right. I figured it wouldn't seem strange for me to ask about her.

  "Hold it a sec, Dog," I said. "There's a cute little chick... Chris or Christy. Know who I mean?"

  "Too bad, Doc. You'll have to find a different cunt tonight. I heard she did herself a couple of days ago. Jumped out a window or some shit." He shrugged it off coldly and walked away.

  I was furious. It had meant something to me—to save her from this life, from The Henchmen's grip. There was nothing I could do for her now—except grieve. Grieve for someone whom I'd never really known. Someone whose life had never really gotten started.

  I got absorbed into the party. We drank and carried on until about three-thirty. I slept on the floor.

  Chapter 16

  "Mr. Toritelli says everybody gets a bonus of five thousand dollars on this job," said Famantia to his troop of nearly fifty men. They were lined up inside the pier building on Front Street, two miles from Penn's Landing. Pier 20, owned by the Toritellis, was one of the last old piers slated to be renovated into waterfront condominiums. Today it would serve as barracks for a loosely-banded fighting force. A force with a mission. To destroy The Henchmen.

  The men stood in rows of five. All wore black jeans, sweatshirts, and running shoes. All were armed with either 9-mm. pistols or Uzi submachine guns. All were hungry to impress the Toritelli organization and make a name for themselves in the underworld. They would be known as the hit squad that had brought down the Philadelphia chapter of The Henchmen. Calvecci stood in front, his own Uzi resting on his shoulder, barrel pointing toward the ceiling.