Deep Cover

by Edward Bungert

  "Listen up!" ordered Famantia. "We make the hit in six hours. All of you designated Group A will go with Ricky Moose." Famantia motioned his weapon toward the burly, six-foot-nine enforcer. "You'll be hitting the building from the rear. There's a fire escape that leads to the roof. You'll pick off anyone attempting to leave the building by way of the escape or the back doors and windows." Eight men were assigned to Ricky Moose's team, twenty-four to Calvecci's. Famantia would lead the remaining men in a frontal assault of the building. "Mario's group—Group B—will split up and enter the houses on each side. From this one"—Famantia pointed to a sketch of the structures—"he can blow a hole through the wall if there are problems getting in through their roof. They won't know what hit them. My group will assault from the front. Any questions?"

  "What about cops?" someone yelled from the rear.

  "Handled," said Famantia confidently. He thought about how easy it was to give instructions to the desk sergeant at the local precinct. Sergeant Barry, on the Toritelli payroll for the last ten years, would delay all calls regarding gunshots or disturbances in the area between nine and nine forty-five P.M.

  "Now," Famantia continued, "report to the head of your team and review the attack plan. Remember, we're out of there by nine-thirty. The moving van leaves at nine thirty-five. Sharp. You miss the truck, you take your chances with the cops."

  The men hurriedly grouped together to review the attack plans.

  We rode two abreast behind the hearse. The twenty-minute ride to the cemetery was my first as a full patch-wearing member. The San Pagano, Riverside, Elmwood, Downey, and Culver City chapters were already at the gate when we arrived. Since Popeye was from our chapter, we rode behind the hearse and entered the cemetery first.

  A canvas tarp was set up next to the grave site. Chairs for Popeye's immediate family were arranged next to the grave. All the motorcycles were lined up impeccably along the side of the road. Every wheel was turned to the right. Counsel, Dog, Monk, Snake, Smitty, and Popeye's brother John Burns were the pallbearers. John wasn't a member or associate of the club. Counsel permitted him to carry the coffin out of respect for Popeye's mom, who sat next to Popeye's wife and daughter, crying for her lost child.

  I found it unsettling to watch this small, fragile woman gently dabbing at her tears with a tissue. Tears she shed for the child she had brought into the world, full of hopes and dreams for his future. I looked around at the hulking, raunchy-looking bikers. It was hard to believe that every one of these menacing figures, with their leather vests, their beards, their sinister reputations, had once been somebody's little baby. I laughed to myself as I remembered something Dog had said: "We come into the world from between a woman's legs and spend the rest of our lives trying to get back in."

  When the eulogy had ended, the pallbearers lowered their brother into his grave. A colorful wreath, with a ribbon that read OUR BELOVED BROTHER POPEYE, lay on top of the coffin. Counsel shoveled in the first spade of dirt. The Henchmen strictly forbade anyone other than a Henchman to bury a brother. The local grave diggers union offered no resistance. After the funeral, all the attending chapters returned to the clubhouse in East Los Angeles. Once there, Counsel took me aside and led me upstairs to his office.

  "I want to give you some instructions for the pickup tonight in New Jersey. Your flight leaves at three-fifteen. This will get you into Newark eleven-thirty East Coast time tonight. There's a reservation for a car at the National counter under the name Stewart Miller. Here, look at these."

  Counsel showed me a set of phony ID's. A driver's license and two credit cards. They were some of the best I'd ever seen.

  "Smile," said Counsel as he snapped my picture. He took the photo to a cutter, the kind you see in passport photo shops, cut it out, and laminated it to the driver's license.

  "We get about three hundred for one of these on the street." He handed me the license and the cards.

  "Pay cash for everything. Only use the credit cards as ID if you need them."

  "Who am I going to meet?" I asked.

  "A dude named Sam, and his old lady Louise. They'll be there in the RV I told you about. New Jersey is their last stop."

  "Where else do they stop?" I asked casually. I figured this would be a natural question for someone to ask.

  "Several places," answered Counsel. "They left the lab with shipments for chapters in Houston, Philadelphia, New York, and New Jersey. A lab in St. Paul supplies its own chapter, as well as Chicago, Des Moines, and Detroit."

  "Do we always do it through Sam?" I asked.

  "No. Sometimes we fly it out if it's a small quantity. Or if it's an emergency. With Sam and Louise we can ship a lot, and they're reliable. They make the whole run in about six days."

  It made sense. Keeping the manufacture of crank in just two locations gave them quality control. Henchmen didn't burn people in drug deals. They didn't sacrifice long-term customers for short-term profits. A philosophy some U.S. corporations would do well to keep in mind.

  My instructions were clear. I was to drive the car to the turnpike rendezvous and pick up the crank. Then on to Paterson, and delivery to the clubhouse on 33rd Street. No need to check if someone would be there to receive. A Henchmen clubhouse is never left empty. There would be at least one prospect there.

  Counsel and his wife, Elaine, drove me to the airport. I was surprised to see her, because he had never mentioned her before that afternoon. She was a nice-looking lady. Plump and light-skinned, with straight golden-brown hair. She had a beautiful tattoo of a rose on her left shoulder and another above her breast, which I couldn't quite make out under her sun dress. Elaine talked a lot about their two kids, Andy and Katherine. They were seven and five respectively. It all seemed so normal. Except for their biker-and-old-lady appearance it was as if I were talking to Mr. and Mrs. Middle America. They even talked about retiring one day to a ranch in Southern California. Either Elaine was unaware of The Henchmen's illegal activities or she simply didn't care.

  They dropped me off in front of the terminal building forty-five minutes before my flight to Newark was scheduled to depart. Counsel had to drive on into Hollywood for a seven P.M. meeting with a producer who had approached him about a movie deal. Apparently they had a script all prepared for a film called The Henchmen Ride. In addition to a consultancy agreement, they were offering some minor parts to Counsel and other club members. Counsel was a bit apprehensive, but had decided to hear him out. I told him I thought it would bring too much national attention to the club. Elaine didn't offer her opinion.

  I called Amy before I got on the plane. She was doing her best to sound calm and in control. I could tell she was worried as hell, with just a touch of pissed off and lonely. Alex was awake, and we had a little talk. He reminded me about my birthday promise to buy him the karate turtle with the orange mask. I assured him I would keep my promise. I hoped I would be able to.

  I told Amy that the investigation was moving forward rapidly, and that she shouldn't worry. She said she'd seen a report on the news that an ex-member of The Henchmen had been murdered outside his home. I changed the subject, then told her I had to go. I didn't tell her I was traveling east, just that I had to get back to developing my reports.

  "Martin, you don't sound like yourself," she said. I wasn't. I could never describe to her what I had been through. The feeling of guilt was strong.

  "I'm fine. Really. Just a little tired." I was raped by a biker slut the other day, and it's killing me not being able to say anything to you, I thought.

  "I love you," she said.

  "I love you too, Amy. I'll call you soon. Bye." "Bye."

  Next, I called Base I. Molly Samuels was on duty. "Nice going on the McBright thing," I said.

  "Hey, same to you, Martin. Dalton told me you used a double-barrel. Knocked McBright on his rear pretty hard," she said. I could hear the smile in her voice.

  "Yeah. A last-minute change of plans, courtesy of our friend Counsel. Just between you and me, I wa
sn't a hundred percent sure I didn't kill him. How is he?"

  "He's fine. A little difficult, but fine. We'll have them settled with their new names within a week or so. They're in a safe house for the moment. Dalton is staying with them until their case agents arrive."

  "That's great," I said. "I've been given instructions from Counsel to go to New Jersey." I gave Molly the details of the drug pickup. She said she would arrange for a surveillance team to take photos of the meeting. Pictures of this Louise and Sam, as well as their vehicle, would prove to be useful after their arrest. Photos or videos of drug transactions always help support an agent's testimony in court. Atwood would have enough pull in the Bureau to get the surveillance done without bringing the team in on our investigation. They would photograph the individuals, then ship the pictures and reports directly to Atwood's office. I also told Molly that something was coming down in Philly. She said she would alert the desk sergeant at the local precinct.

  I slept through most of the flight. As instructed, I paid cash for the car at the airport and followed the signs to the New Jersey Turnpike. It took me about thirty minutes to drive to the drop-off point. I spotted the RV parked near the east side of the lot, right where Counsel had said it would be. I parked in front of the RV. No one was sitting in front. I walked around the side and peered through the window. "How ya doing?" said a deep voice behind me, which startled me momentarily. "Say, you must be Dr. Death." He wasn't exactly what I had expected. His three-hundred-plus-pound frame took me a little by surprise. I'd been expecting some slick-looking drug-runner. Instead I got Baby Huey in a Hawaiian shirt.

  "That's me," I said. "You must be Sam." He put his hamburger in the bag he was carrying, wiped his hand on his shirt, and offered me a handshake. "I was just getting a couple of burgers. Want one?" I shook my head no. "Glad to know you, Doc," he said. "The Mrs. is inside. Hey, Lou!" he yammered, as he pounded on the side of the vehicle. "We got company!"

  I heard the click of the door being unlocked, and it slowly swung open. Sam motioned for me to enter. His wife Louise was sitting on one of the built-in couches opposite the door. Her girth took up most of the tiny seating space, and once Sam had squeezed his way in behind me there wasn't too much room left for me to sit. The camper smelled of body odor and rotten food. Louise was eating some sort of sandwich with melted cheese. Sam opened the bag and started to devour his hamburgers. This was almost as disgusting as having that biker chick sit on my face. I sat opposite the rotund couple, my back to the door. Sam finished a burger with two bites and a gulp and, while he shoved a second in his mouth, motioned toward two green plastic bags. "There it is, Doctor," he said, talking with his mouth full of food. Louise sat there, munching away. God, these two were made for each other.

  "They told me in Philadelphia that you'd be here," Sam continued. "The Jersey boys had to go down there to help them out tonight. But I guess you know all about that, Doc."

  "They're gonna kick some ass," said Louise. "If me and Sam were a couple of years younger," she said, patting her husband's belly, "why, we'd we turn 'round and head back there tonight. Wouldn't we, Sam?"

  "Sure. Sure, Lou." Sam looked at me and rolled his eyes.

  I stood up. "Look," I said. "It was nice meeting you folks, but I don't have time to chat. I gotta get this stuff over to Paterson and catch a flight back to L.A. tomorrow morning." I turned to grab the bags and froze at the sound of a knock at the door. I looked at Sam and Louise, as if to ask them if they were expecting anyone. They both looked surprised, and shook their heads no. Better answer, I thought. A second knock and I said, "Yeah, who is it?"

  A young, male voice replied. "Excuse me, sir. I'm sorry to bother you. This is the New Jersey Highway Patrol. Would you please open the door?"

  Sam reached under the cushion of the couch and pulled out a .44 Magnum revolver. Louise, as fat as she was, reached quickly into the compartment above her and produced a MAC-10 machine pistol.

  "Just a minute," I said to the cop outside. Then I whispered intensely to Sam and Louise, "Put those away, for crissake! Let's just see what he wants." To my incredible relief, they complied. The cop was getting impatient.

  "I'm afraid I must insist, sir, that you open—"

  "Yes, officer. What can I do for you?" I said as I opened the door.

  "Just like to see your license and registration please."

  I turned to Sam. "Uncle Sam?" I hope to God that Sam is the name on his license and registration, I thought.

  "Sure thing, my boy." Sam huffed and puffed and finally managed to get his wallet out from his back pocket. He handed me the license and registration and I handed them to the young trooper. I could see Sam reaching under the cushion, ready to draw his gun. I was standing between him and the trooper, so his movements were concealed.

  "Everything in order?" I asked. I can't let this happen, I thought. I can't let this fat piece of shit kill this cop. Come on, kid! I was screaming at him in my mind to get the hell out of here. Just hand back the papers and get back in your patrol car, because I may not be able to stop these slobs from blowing your head off. I must have been holding my breath without realizing it, because I let out a huge sigh of relief when the trooper handed me back Sam's papers and said, "Okay, sorry to bother you. Have a good night."

  I said my good-byes to Sam and Louise and, after I was sure the trooper was long gone, loaded the two bags in the trunk of the car. I looked around, trying to make the surveillance team. There was a van parked about thirty yards away. It was hard to tell. If they were there, they were good. Two-tons-of-fun in the RV certainly wouldn't be able to make them.

  I arrived at the Paterson clubhouse a little after two A.M. Two prospects met me curbside and took the suitcases. I returned to the airport, and after returning the car and taking a nap at the terminal building, I was back on the plane to California at six A.M. I figured that these drop-off points were located away from the clubhouse, because an RV would look suspicious coming into a run-down or low-income neighborhood. Also, if the clubhouse was too hot at the time of a drop-off, they could always bring the stuff to one of their associate's or woman's houses.

  When I arrived back in California, Counsel was waiting at the gate. We hugged and kissed each other hello. People looked at us in startled disgust. To The Henchmen, kissing a brother on the lips was as common as shaking hands. It was also a hell of a lot of fun when it freaked out the citizenry.

  "How did it go, Doc?" asked Counsel

  "Smooth. Baby-ass smooth," I said. I didn't think it necessary to tell Counsel about the trooper. "Sam and his old lady are a trip."

  "Ain't it the truth, brother." We walked outside and into Counsel's car. A skycap had kept an eye on it while Counsel went inside. He tipped him a ten.

  "Hey, Doc," said Counsel, after about ten minutes of driving without much conversation. "Guess what?"

  I shrugged.

  "We're gonna be in the fuckin' movies."

  Oh shit, I thought. I was in deeper than any agent had ever been in the history of undercover work, and these guys were about to go Hollywood.

  "Counsel," I said, "that's great! Just great... By the way, man, I could use a drink."

  Chapter 17

  "It's eight-thirty, brothers," said Whitey, as he raised his gun above his head. "Let's get ready to take care of business."

  With those words the bikers dispersed throughout the clubhouse. Each carried either an Uzi or MAC-10 machine gun. Bones, Stoned Eddie, and three of the Philadelphia Henchmen took positions in the back room. The back door was steel-reinforced and the three windows were bricked up, with a gun port in the center of each one. Whitey, Dirty Dan, and Zorro took their positions in front.

  "See anything?" asked Zorro.

  "Not a fuckin' thing," answered Dirty Dan. Dirty Dan was in position by the middle window, Zorro on his right, Whitey to his left. All three bikers had their gun barrels pointed through the steel openings. The fortification of the front of the clubhouse was almost identical to
that of the rear. The only difference was a gun port built into the front door. From the outside, it looked like an oversized mail slot.

  The rest of the bikers went to the rooftop. Fat Tom, The Philadelphia sergeant-at-arms, and his team set up positions on Mrs. Montali's side of the roof. Grease and his team watched the stairwell on top of Pablo Ramirez's house. They expected a lot of the action to take place on the rooftops, as Toritelli's men tried to make their way from the attached buildings.

  The moving van arrived just before nine. The driver and helper would remain in the cab until the hit was complete. They wore uniforms with the name FlagCo Movers embroidered on the back. Using this Toritelli-owned business as a front, the hit squad could be easily transported to and from the target.

  Few pedestrians were present as Calvecci's team scurried up the street toward the clubhouse. A man walking his dog and a woman listening to the radio on her porch quickly vanished at the sight of the armed men racing up the street. As was usual with the residents of this impoverished neighborhood, these two would not involve themselves in whatever calamity was about to take place by reporting what they had seen to the police.

  Calvecci's team split up and piled into the two homes on either side of the clubhouse. The front doors had been left unlocked, courtesy of Calvecci's break-in men. They moved rapidly toward the roof. Ricky Moose's team cut through the fence behind the clubhouse. Ricky held back the mesh as the six men ducked through and entered the yard. Famantia's men took positions behind parked cars, aiming their guns at the front door and windows.

  "We're through the fence," whispered Ricky Moose into his walkie-talkie. "Can you read me, Joey?"