Deep Cover

by Edward Bungert

  My attacker loosened his grip on my neck. I started to relax, and after a few moments he let go completely. He helped me to my feet, and I started to feel dizzy.

  "I'd better sit," I said, holding my hand to my head. I sat on the edge of my bed, and my mystery host placed the lamp on the end table and turned it on.

  "Dog... he's dead. The Outcasts..." I said. It was coming back to me.

  "I know, man. We buried Dog three days ago. They brought you guys to a hospital near Keeler. Dog was DOA. Counsel says they thought you were gonna buy it too. Soon as the doctors got you stable, Counsel and Snake brought you here and asked me to look after you. I don't hang much with the club anymore—just some parties and the funerals and runs—but my door is always open when my brothers need me."

  I sat there on the side of the bed, rubbing my temples. Fat Jack! Yes, I remembered seeing his picture. The full white beard and wavy white hair. The jolly, Santa-like face.

  Fat Jack leaned over and placed a hand on my shoulder. "You've been out for almost five days, except for some moaning and talking in your sleep. Who the hell is 'Amy,' anyway?"

  "I don't know. I mean I know. I know the name but I don't know who she is, you know?" That's it, Walsh, I said to myself. Think fast, and pray you didn't say too much.

  "Whoa, slow down, Doc! Now you're making my head spin."

  "I think I know you, too," I said.

  I squinted, as if I were trying to get a better look at him. In case I'd said something that might have aroused suspicion, I thought I might as well play up the "dazed and confused" routine. It wasn't far from the truth. There was still a lot that wasn't coming in loud and clear.

  "Yeah, I do know you," I said. "You've been with the club since '69, got your own vending-machine business. Two kids, right?"

  "Right. My son Billy and a daughter, Alice. She's away at school. Studying in France to become a teacher. Billy lives in New York City. Christ, Doc, how the hell do you know so much about me?"

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  "I couldn't tell you, I just know. It's me I don't know much about. Things are real blurry. Names, faces, things coming back then fading away again."

  I opened my eyes wide when it hit my mind like a freight train.

  "The Henchmen! I just got my Henchmen colors. Used to ride with Satan's Saints in Canada. Randall… my name's Randall. Right?"

  Great. I'm reminding myself as much as I'm convincing him. Man, does my head hurt.

  "That's right," said Fat Jack. "Better known to his brothers as Dr. Death. Look, try to relax, brother. I'll let Counsel know you're all right. You gotta rest up, Doc. The Eureka Lake run starts in three days, and you gotta be able to handle your hog. Want a sandwich or something?"

  "Sounds good," I said. Now that he'd mentioned it, I realized I was starving.

  After wolfing down two sandwiches, I walked around the room a bit to try to work out some of the stiffness in my joints and muscles. I looked out the window. From the view here it seemed that the house was pretty well secluded. Through the thick trees I could just make out another house about a quarter-mile away. I would have to rest. Maybe another day. Then I would get the hell out of here, go down to that house, and call in this goddamn operation. I was much too cautious to take the chance of using Jack's phone. If he or anyone in the club overheard me, I would hardly get the phone receiver back in its cradle before I'd have a bullet in my head. As I lay there drifting off into sleep I thought, What the hell was that number to Base 1? Boy, does my head hurt.

  Staring at the telephone, he poured his fourth Scotch. For more than an hour Fred Parkins had been drinking, pacing the floor, and playing a game of mental ping-pong. What should his next move be? He looked at the clock. Seven forty-five A.M. In fifteen minutes Helmsford's shift would be over, and he would lose the opportunity. Another day would be spent wondering about the end of his career in law enforcement. And the end of his relationship with his father. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the phone and dialed the number.

  Patrick Helmsford stacked the piles of unfinished work neatly on his desk. It would all keep until tomorrow's shift. A few arrest reports, a proposal from a local plumber to fix the sink in the rest room, assorted letters and requests for information from family members and news people concerning recent cases. His plan to leave ten minutes early was thwarted by the ringing of the telephone.

  "Helmsford." He made no attempt to hide his annoyance.

  "Patrick Helmsford?"

  "Yes... yes. Who the hell is this?"

  "Who I am isn't important. What is important is that I have some critical information for you and your buddies—The Henchmen."

  There was a long silence, as thoughts flew through Helmsford's head. What can this be? A joke? Maybe an investigation. Maybe it's a test. That's it. Someone suspects me of having close ties to The Henchmen and is trying to trap me.

  "Henchmen. Yes... the motorcycle gang. Not exactly my buddies. You ought to be speaking with Detective Ross. He's our expert on the biker gangs."

  "Sure, tell me about it." Parkins' tone was antagonistic.

  "Now wait a fucking minute, asshole! Who the hell are you?"

  "The biker who calls himself Dr. Death is a fed. He was brought in to shut them down. The only reason you're still in business is the feds can't get a triple shift authorized to monitor your phone calls. It's just a matter of time."

  Sweat ran down Parkins' face as he hung up the phone, suddenly panicked by his own actions. The enormity of what he had done dawned on him as his stomach tightened and his head began to ache. He poured his fifth Scotch and walked over to the mirror. A sad, pathetic drunk looked back at him.

  "You had to do it," he assured his image, taking another drink. "Besides, he's probably dead anyway, so it won't matter. You did the right thing."

  He held the empty glass up to the mirror, dropped it on the floor, then fell back on the couch. He would sleep until noon, when Dalton Leverick, concerned that he hadn't shown up at the office, would call him.

  Helmsford was at his wit's end. Who was that? How had he known to contact me? He asked himself these questions repeatedly during the forty-five-minute ride to his apartment. Each time, no answers. Each time he was no closer to a decision. If he didn't say anything to Counsel, and the information turned out to be true, he would be finished with The Henchmen. Maybe finished with living. That would be so only if Counsel knew he had the information. How could he know? Unless Counsel was testing his loyalty to the club. And if not Counsel, then someone else knew of his Henchmen connection. But who?

  He fumbled with the keys to his apartment door, dropping them three times before finding the right one. Once inside he headed straight for the kitchen, the cabinet over the sink, right-hand side.

  "Shit," he said, disappointed. "No Scotch. I guess it'll have to be vodka." He sat in front of the telephone. Drinking straight from the bottle, he looked at his watch between gulps. Nine-thirty A.M. Too early to call Counsel at home. He took another gulp from the bottle. "Fuck it." He depressed the digits hesitantly.

  "Counsel? It's Helmsford."

  Snake and Iron Man were making the rounds along the strip. They would park their bikes at one end of the street and walk together from shop to shop, making their weekly pickups. Establishments under Henchmen protection would pay them the weekly fifty. Shops owned by the club would simply open their books for a quick review. No need for a cash payment. Counsel controlled the bank accounts, and would make regular transfers electronically through the club's computer. The businesses were legitimate. None was registered in the name of the club or any of its officers.

  Snake went right to the novelty section of the Hole In One books and novelty shop, while Iron Man went to the main counter.

  "Evenin', Sally," Iron Man politely said.

  Sally was a short, fifty-six-year-old woman with rotten teeth and a bad left eye that was always half-closed. She had worked in the pornography business for over forty years. She and her boyfriend h
ad started one of the first shops on the strip.

  "You're not on rounds this week, are you, sweetheart?" she asked, surprised to see him.

  "Sure am, Sally. Me and Snake."

  He gestured toward Snake, who was looking perplexed as he studied a double-headed penis, hearing none of their conversation.

  "Well, I done paid a young feller no more'n an hour ago." Sally picked her nose and nonchalantly rubbed her fingers on her blue polyester sweater.

  "What? Who?" Iron Man's eyes bulged like they were about to pop out of their sockets.

  "Never saw him before. He had a Henchmen tattoo on his forearm, just like you boys. He says he was comin' to collect, so I gave him his fifty."

  Iron Man slammed his hand on the counter. "What the fuck did he look like?"

  "He looked like most of you boys. Long hair, scraggly beard. A little on the skinny side, though. Not like you... No, not like you at all." Sally leaned over the counter and patted him on his belly.

  "Sally, you don't pay nobody you don't know!" Iron Man turned toward the novelty aisle. "Snake, let's go, man. We're gonna find that motherfucker."

  "Who? Hey, I want to get one of these!"

  "Not now, dipshit. Come on, I'll explain along the way."

  "You don't pay nobody you don't know!" Iron Man repeated, pointing his finger at Sally as they exited the shop. She shrugged, scratched under her armpit, and sat back down to a copy of Bestiality magazine.

  The two bikers spent the next three hours riding up and down the strip in search of the imposter. Stopping in all the bars and strip joints in the area, they questioned over fifty people. Finally, at almost two in the morning, a hooker named Jinx told them a guy with a Henchmen tattoo had tried to talk her into a free blow job.

  "I said Henchman or no Henchman, you gotta pay if you want Jinx to swallow your salami, baby," she had told them. "I'd seen that boy before. I think he regulars over at The Crossbow, on 10th Street."

  The bikers rode over to 10th Street. They noticed a Japanese motorcycle parked outside The Crossbow bar. Iron Man and Snake pulled over about fifty yards down the street.

  "If this guy did this while riding a rice wagon to boot, I'll rip out his eyes and fuck his skull," said Iron Man as he dismounted his Harley.

  They entered the bar and began to walk from table to table, looking everyone up and down as they made their way through. Suddenly, a man stood and ran toward the back of the bar.

  "The back door!" shouted Snake, as he darted after him. The imposter ran across the yard and started to climb a chain-link fence. Snake leaped and caught him by his ankle, shaking him loose. He fell on his back, his head hitting the ground hard. Snake picked him up by the jacket, spun him around, and held his arms, while an out-of-breath Iron Man confronted him.

  "You little shit!" He tore the sleeve from his jacket, exposing the phony Henchmen tattoo on an arm covered with needle marks. "Where'd you get this?"

  "I d-did it myself, man! Honest! I thought I could get a couple of fast bucks. P-please, man! I'm sorry! I'll have it removed! I'll give you guys back all the bread!"

  "Shut the fuck up, dickhead!"

  Iron Man slapped him across the face, opening a small cut on his lip. He punched him in the stomach and kicked him in the groin, causing his knees to buckle. Snake still held his arms as the junkie quivered and gagged.

  "You're goddamn right you'll have it removed."

  Iron Man held the man's wrist and pulled an eight-inch buck knife from its boot strap. With one stroke he sliced off the tattoo, along with most of the man's forearm. It fell to the ground like a slab of raw steak. A look of shock and disbelief appeared on his face, then screams that didn't sound like anything human followed. Snake loosened his grip and the man fell to the ground, writhing in pain and still screaming his inhuman cry.

  The two bikers pushed their way through the crowd that had gathered at the back door, every one of them too scared or too indifferent to offer any assistance to the victim. Snake and Iron Man could still hear the screams as they mounted their Harleys.

  "Hey, Iron Man, let's go back to Sally's!" suggested Snake. "I want to get that dildo for the run to the lake!"

  Chapter 23

  The coffee was bitter. Atwood took small sips, hoping to get used to it. He placed the cup on the edge of his desk, careful not to disturb the mounds of paperwork and reports relating to the biker case. He looked at his watch, reached again for the cup, then abandoned his decision to try again.

  "Susan, order me some coffee from outside, please. All that machine can make is mud."

  "Right away, Mr. Atwood. Shall I order some for Mr. Leverick too, sir? The receptionist says he's on the way."

  "Yeah, sure. Although I should make the bastard pay for his own," he mumbled playfully.

  "What was that, sir? I didn't understand."

  "Nothing, Susan. Send Dalton in when he arrives."

  Atwood returned to making notes on a yellow pad. He had set up a list of arrests that he felt they could make stick—if Martin Walsh was still alive. If the worst had happened and Martin was dead, there was little they could do. Most of the crimes had either been witnessed by him or confessed to him. They did have some signed 302's that implicated the club in dealing firearms. That might be enough to invoke the RICO Act. Then again, it might not be.

  He broke the point of his pencil as Leverick walked briskly through the door.

  "Walsh is alive!" said Leverick. His smile was broad and vibrant.

  "How? When?"

  "You know we were working the hospital angle, checking for gunshot wounds? Well, it turned out that a hospital outside of Keeler took in a DOA from a gunshot wound, and another guy fitting Martin's description. The DOA was Henchman Jerome Fenway, known to the bikers as 'Dog.' "

  "The guy from Boldero Prison?"

  "One and the same. Get this: Four bikers come in to the ward the next morning, intimidate the shit out of the entire medical staff as well as some deputy kid from the sheriff's office, and take Martin out. The doctors say he was unconscious when they took him. It was definitely Martin. We ran a check on the fingerprints taken from the van."

  "Van?" inquired Atwood, still smiling at Leverick's keyed-up explanation.

  "The sheriff's office hauled in a van that had crashed in a ditch along Highway 190. A passerby told the sheriff that before he'd called in the crash, he saw two bikers taking something out of the van."

  "What was it?"

  "We don't know. My guess is either drugs or weapons. Sounds like part of the biker war to me."

  "Me too." Atwood's face became serious. "Was Martin shot?"

  "No, the assailants must have left him for dead. The doctor said he had a bad concussion. No broken bones."

  Atwood stood up and walked over to his bookcase to get another pencil. "Do we know were he is?"

  "No. Molly checked his apartment last night. She gave his landlady a fifty. Said she was an old girlfriend, and wanted to surprise him with a visit when he came home. It didn't look like anyone had been there for days."

  Atwood and Leverick both stood silent for moment. Then, as if prompted by the same thought, both men solemnly seated themselves.

  "Why hasn't he called in?" asked Atwood.

  "Precisely, precisely what I'm asking myself." Leverick rose to meet Atwood's secretary in the doorway. "Thank you, Susan." He took the brown paper bag and removed the two containers. Susan left silently. "They never put enough milk in these, you know?"

  "Don't complain. It's free, isn't it?"

  "So what do we do, Richard? Bust them? Then ask where the hell Martin is?"

  "No. Too risky. Martin could be laid up somewhere, and he'd be a sitting duck if a mass arrest were to suddenly take place and questions were asked about him. I think we have to get near the bikers, scope it out."

  Leverick sipped his coffee. "A visit to Mike's?"

  "Yeah. Tonight. Get the jeep from the garage and pick me up at nine o'clock."

  Leverick looked at
his watch. Five-fifteen P.M. "That doesn't leave me much time. I'd better run." He picked up his coffee container and headed toward the door. "Oh, one more thing. I'm worried about Parkins. He's been acting real strange." Leverick waited for him to add something. Atwood just nodded. "I can't quite put my finger on it, but something's not right. What do you think?"

  "I think we have to get to Martin. Tell Parkins nothing. I'll arrange to have him taken off the case until we can find out what's wrong."

  It was daytime. What time, and exactly what day, I had no idea. I felt stronger now; still a little dazed in the head, but definitely stronger. Strong enough to leave the house and put this nightmare to rest. I still wasn't sure exactly what the number to Base I was, but I was confident that when I started dialing it would come to me. I figured the team had to be out of their minds by that time, wondering what the hell had happened to me. And Amy. My dear, sweet Amy. At least it would soon be over. Or so I thought.

  I was surprised when I opened the door to see Snake standing outside the room with an M16 in his hands.

  "Hey, Doc. How you doin', man?" he said.

  "Great, Snake. Feeling great." Sure I was. "What's with the hardware? Where's Jack?"

  "Jack's out. Counsel wants to talk to you. He'll be here soon, Doc. He told me to make sure you didn't leave the house."

  "What the fuck is that shit?" I had to show Snake I was pissed. Compliance would have shown I was hiding something. "If he wants to talk to me, he could just come over and talk to me. He doesn't have to put a fucking guard at my door."

  Snake became defensive. "Look, Doc. The prez said you wait, and that means you wait." His eyes displayed cold determination. He would shoot me if I tried to leave. I was certain of this. I moved closer to him.

  "Look, Snake, we don't have to—"

  "Sorry, Doc." He pointed the M16 at my head. "Just go back inside until Counsel gets here. I'm sure it's nothing, man. Just don't fuck up, okay?"