Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle

by Jerry Langton

  Weise spoke up, hoping to stop the back-and-forth between the two senior officers. “So if Aiken has no friends in Arizona,” he offered, “is there a chance that he could have slipped across the border?”

  “Good point,” said Tovar, who had become something of a sponsor for the intern and wanted to deflect the fact that he had broken the agency's tacit rules against interns being so bold. “There's a long and proud tradition of American felons running south of the Rio Grande to disappear.”

  “True,” said Meloni. “But that was before Mexico turned into a war zone.” He paused. “But maybe it makes no difference. Agent Tovar, you're going to Tucson. Bring your enthusiastic young friend with you.”

  * * *

  The three Cossacks took Ned down a well-manicured trail to a road just beyond where the trees stopped. He could see sparsely grassed cattle pasture on the other side. Like many Americans, Ned made a habit of judging other people's financial success by the cars they drove, and these guys seemed to be doing fairly well. As he was coming to believe was Mexican tradition, the Chevy Tahoe SUV the men were driving was brightly painted and heavily customized.

  Ned was instructed to sit in the front. After starting the engine, Weasel turned to him. “I know the Clown said you were gonna be president, but it will be in name only,” he said. “We were doing fine before you got here.”

  Ned chuckled, surprised to find that he was happy to be out of Mexico. “I have no problem with that,” he said. “I did not come here to start pushing people around or start changing things.”

  Weasel shifted in drive. “Then we'll all get along,” he said and the men in the back laughed. “You mind narcocorridas?”

  Ned smiled. “I've gotten used to them.”

  As they drove down the East Patagonia Highway past Nogales's one-strip airport, Weasel told Ned about the history of the Cossacks. “A lot of vets coming back from Vietnam had a fuck-everything attitude and joined up with bike clubs, especially the Hells,” he said. “But the Hells were white-only, and refused to accept black or Latino members.”

  “Doesn't surprise me,” Ned said, trying to sound innocent of biker culture. “I've heard of gangs like that.”

  Weasel smiled. “Don't bother. We know who you are, man. Poco Loco told us everything. Since you are a friend of his, you are a friend of ours,” he said. “So, as I was saying, the blacks and Latinos formed their own clubs . . . like the Mongols.”

  “I've never heard of a black club.”

  “My uncle Monster, one of the founders of the Cossacks, told me there used to be a couple, but they didn't last,” he explained. “I guess bikes just weren't their thing.”

  “So you guys still have a grudge against the Hells Angels?” Ned asked. “They have Hispanic members now. Wasn't the San Fran president Mexican? I forget his name.

  “Well, he was about seventh generation, and, by the way, he was assassinated. Shot in the head on his front stoop in front of his kids.”

  “By the Mongols, wasn't it?”

  Weasel laughed. “All I'm gonna say on that is probably—all hearsay and speculation as my lawyer likes to say,” he said. “But, sure, that resentment is still there, but it's more than just that. The Hells are assholes. Everyone hates the featherheads. I mean they always move in and try to make a monopoly. They push people around, set prices, bully our dealers and friends. They suck.”

  “And they need to be dealt with,” said one of the shaven-headed guys from the back seat.

  Weasel looked at Ned and pointed his thumb at the back seat. “This is something you are going to have to deal with,” he said. “Many in our membership are a bit suspicious of people they don't know—to them, you could be a Hells, an ATF, or even an FBI . . .”

  “None of those guys would have me,” Ned joked in an attempt to look more confident.

  “But the Clown says we have to,” said the other guy from the back seat.

  They drove, mostly in silence aside from the stereo, to a low-slung bungalow not far from downtown. Weasel explained to Ned that he was going to share the house with Speedy for a while, until they got to know him a little better. “I know the Clown is the boss, but we have to be careful,” Weasel told him. “Especially after what happened to the Hells. You understand.” It was not a question.

  Ned assured him he understood and went into the house with the others. After Speedy showed him around, instructing him not to use his weights set, and some terse small talk, Ned asked what he was supposed to do.

  “I don't know, man,” Speedy shot back. “You were brought here to be the white guy, so do white-guy stuff. Play golf, make money, don't dance. I don't care.” He glared, sat on the leather couch in the middle of the living room and turned on the TV. It was one of those melodramatic Mexican soap operas that seem to be on all the time in the Southwest.

  “Don't mind him,” said Weasel. “He doesn't understand the long-range implications of the Clown's plan.”

  “He doesn't understand the word implication,” added El Borracho.

  “Like I said, I'm not here to piss anyone off,” Ned offered.

  “Too late,” El Borracho was on a roll.

  “Look, I'm the boss here and Speedy will just have to live with my decision, whether he likes it or not,” Weasel said, ignoring the fact that it was indeed Poco Loco's decision that was in question. “You're here and there's nothing he can do about it—unless he wants to go over the border and tell the Clown what he thinks.”

  That got Speedy's attention. He shut off the TV and stood up to face the others, an act that only underlined how petulant he had been earlier. “I know, I know, if the Clown says we have to, we have to,” he said. “I'm cool. Sorry, Crash.”

  Ned smiled. “Don't be, it's cool,” he said. “We have to live together for a while so let's save the fighting until I get my own place. Keep in mind, just hours ago I was nothing but a delivery boy on the other side.”

  “That's what I want to hear,” said Weasel, who then directed his attention to Ned. “A boy will be by later to bring you some things. Keep in mind that we can't be sure who can hear what in this house (if you know what I mean), so certain words are not to be said in English or in Spanish.”

  “Got it,” Ned said. “Until then, I will just clean up and relax. Hey, Speedy, where do you keep the towels?”

  Speedy sighed. Weasel gave him a dirty look. “In that closet there,” he finally announced.

  Ned took a shower. When he came out, Weasel and El Borracho were gone. In their place was a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy who was playing some kind of card game with Speedy. He looked at Ned and said: “Wow, he really is white—looks like the principal from my school, only stupider.”

  “Thanks,” Ned said in Spanish. “What do you have for me?”

  “Over there, Mr. President,” Speedy pointed at a knapsack by the fake fireplace under the TV and laughed. The boy, fat and suspicious-looking, joined him.

  Ned walked over and picked it up. He put it on Speedy's dining room table and opened it up. The first thing that popped out was a Springfield M1911A1, a handgun Ned recognized and appreciated a great deal. It came with a couple of boxes of ammo. Deeper inside the pack was a Ziploc bag with about a half-gram of weed, a plastic grocery store shopping bag with about $15,000 in well-worn cash, and a “Support Your Local Cossacks” T-shirt.

  “Weasel says for you to go shopping, buy some clothes,” the boy said.

  “I think I'll do that, little man,” Ned answered.

  Speedy spoke to the kid. “Run along now and do your kid things,” he said. “We have man things to discuss.”

  As soon as he was sure the boy had left, Speedy looked angrily at Ned. “Don't get too comfortable,” he said. “I know things about you.”

  Ned, trying to play it tough, picked up his gun. “Yeah, what do you know?”

  “Things,” he said. “Things you would rather I didn't know.”

  “You don't know shit,” Ned said. “Because there is nothing t
o know. You're just pissed off because I'm president and you're just some low-level tough guy. Your job is to look after me, so look after me.”

  “Yeah, I'll do that,” Speedy seethed. “Just sleep well.”

  “I will.”

  Chapter Eight

  Ned had not taken Speedy's threats very seriously. He knew that Poco Loco was big time—he even had ambitions of ruling all of Mexico one day. And since Ned appeared to be a big part of his plans (at least to help establish and maintain a major revenue stream from Arizona), it would be a bad move, potentially a suicidal one, for the Cossacks to let anything happen to him. He knew intellectually and instinctively that Speedy wouldn't harm him while he was under his roof, but he slept with a loaded gun anyway.

  When he woke up, he went into the living room and sat down. Speedy either wasn't awake yet or had left. Ned was hungry so he checked the fridge. He realized that he missed having the ranch-house girls taking care of him. All he could find in the fridge was old fast food that Speedy was keeping for some reason, but he was so hungry, he had little choice. If Speedy made a fuss, he'd just give him a hundred bucks or so to shut him up.

  While Ned had his head in the fridge, the doorbell rang. Startled, he picked up his gun from the kitchen counter and approached the door. He peeked through the side window to see Weasel and another man on the stoop. The other guy was older, fatter, and had none of the affectations of a biker. In fact, he was wearing a blazer and slacks despite the already searing south Arizona sun. Ned let them in.

  Weasel introduced the other guy as Carlos Garcia, and Ned shook his hand. Garcia smiled with the polish of a lifelong salesman, exposing a gold tooth with a diamond inlay. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I look forward to doing business with you.”

  “Business? That's great,” Ned said. “What are we doing?”

  Weasel explained that Garcia owned a small chain of bars and fast-food outlets along Interstate 19 from Catalina, a suburb north of Tucson, all the way down to a few hundred yards from the border in Nogales. Ribs, chicken wings, and fries places, they targeted a non-Hispanic clientele and were moderately successful. The real money came in augmenting his revenue with drug sales. “But right now,” Weasel said. “We're finding it very hard to sell anything stronger than weed. The cowboys and other white trash around here just don't trust the Mexicans. We need one of you guys to win them over.”

  “So I'll be selling?”

  “No,” Garcia assured him. “All you have to do is show up, be visible; interact with the guys who are actually selling. Try to make them look like they're your friends, like they're trustworthy. Hang out, pat them on the back, play pool with them, or whatever.”

  “That's all?”

  “Well, if you can make friends with any of the locals, that's even better—especially if they're connected,” said Garcia. “And if you can make any deals on your own, that's gravy.”

  “What about the cops?”

  “The cops aren't a problem unless you do something wrong—they only come in to my places to look for illegals in the kitchen,” Garcia said. “Everything's in my name. You're not officially on staff, just a noteworthy and popular customer. They won't even see you because they're just not looking for you.”

  “Any bad guys?”

  Garcia paused. “A little while ago, I would have warned you about the Hells Angels, but they are done around here now.”

  “So what are we waiting for?” asked Ned.

  * * *

  Tovar and Weise wasted no time once they arrived in Arizona. Weise's enthusiasm was obvious, and Tovar liked not just the company but the feeling that they were getting something done. There was nowhere in Sahuarita for them to stay, so they were located in Green Valley, just south of Tucson. It was nine a.m. local time when they arrived at the lab. What remained of the bike was twisted and charred. The motorcycle expert they had called in from Flagstaff had finished his examination and determined that it was, in all likelihood, the same bike that had been registered to Eric Steadman in Delaware.

  The local police had interviewed Lucas's friends, fam-ily, and business associates, focusing on the bike. Those who knew of the motorcycle pointed out that Lucas could not stop boasting about it after it had arrived. According to his brother-in-law, Caleb McInytre, Lucas claimed that he was given the bike in payment from a supplier who was facing bankruptcy. When he was pressed on who, Lucas only told him it was someone from back east, someone McIntyre didn't know.

  Tovar called McIntyre in. They questioned him about Lucas and his business associates, then asked him if he had seen Aiken, handing him some photos they had from when he was in the witness-protection program. McIntyre said he hadn't seen anyone like that around Sahuarita, but he'd be sure to get back to them if he did. Despite that one particular dead end, the two agents agreed that they were getting closer to Aiken. If was in the area, they thought, it wouldn't be too long before they found him.

  * * *

  Weasel and Garcia directed Ned to a black Infiniti sedan. Weasel instructed Ned to sit up front, so he could give him a guided tour. They drove south to Nogales, to show Ned the first of the places he would be hanging out in on their behalf.

  There wasn't much to this particular Gibby's Bar-B-Q location—just a storefront with melamine tables and chairs and a counter behind which a Mexican staff prepared and served various fast-food versions of classic barbecue favorites. Melendez introduced Ned to them as Colin, the new manager. The employees greeted him and were surprised at how well he spoke Spanish.

  They took him to a strip mall farther north in town. At one end of the mall was a bar called Good Time Dave's. Again, it was a pretty basic place—some stools at a bar, a pool table, and a smattering of cowboy-related memorabilia. The few men drinking in there barely acknowledged the trio when they entered. Again Garcia introduced Ned as Colin, the new manager.

  Back in the car, Ned asked Weasel what happened to the old manager.

  “He was stupid,” answered the big man, who refused to elaborate further.

  They toured a number of Gibby's and Dave's locations, each with the same result. The staff greeted him politely, if not warmly, while the customers barely seemed to notice his presence. At the last Gibby's stop in Catalina, Garcia told the staff to pack up some ribs, chicken, and fries for Weasel and Ned to bring to the Cossacks' club house.

  They left Garcia there, and drove to the Barrio El Hoyo neighborhood on the east side of Tucson. They pulled up in front of a store called XXX-Caliber Guns & Ammo. Although the building was only about thirty feet wide, it was at least eighty feet long. “We normally go around back, but I want to introduce you to Scruffy,” Weasel told Ned, who was carrying enough Gibby's barbecue to feed a college class. “You'll like this.”

  As they entered the gun shop, Weasel was immediately approached by an ancient man in an old-style wheelchair, the kind in which the rider moves the chair with his hands on the wheels. He was small and frail and looked like he hadn't seen the sun in years. His bald head reflected the overhead lights and his stringy beard made it almost down to his lap. “How ya doin' there, Weezie?” he shouted through his three remaining teeth as he rolled over to Weasel. “Didja bring some Gibby's? Didja?”

  “Yeah, yeah, Scruffy, I got you some chicken,” Weasel said as he handed a white cardboard box of chicken and fries—the grease already turning it transparent in spots—to Scruffy. “And Scruffy, this is Ian or Colin or Crash or something—the new white guy.”

  Scruffy cackled wildly while diving into the box of chicken pieces and French fries. “I thought I was your favorite white guy!”

  Weasel laughed warmly. “Yeah, you are Scruffy,” he said. “But you're retired, man, you're an institution. We need this guy to be the face of the franchise—you know, window dressing.”

  But it didn't matter what he said. Scruffy was so deep into his chicken that he couldn't hear him anyway. Weasel then turned and faced the display case. Behind it was an immense man, at least 4
00 pounds, and definitely bigger than El Ratón. The huge man had a beard down to his belt buckle and tattoos covering his neck and arms. He had a scar on his face that ran from the center of his forehead over his left eye and down his left cheek. “This is the new guy, Stew Bob,” Weasel said to him. “Just call him Colin.”

  “Colin? I ain't gonna call this one shit,” Stew Bob snorted while retrieving enough phlegm to make a dramatic spit. “He ain't gonna last. I can always tell.” Then he laughed, staring into Ned's eyes the whole time.

  “Whatever, Stew Bob,” Weasel said, and rolled his eyes. “C'mon, Crash, through here.” The big biker led him through a back door about twenty feet beyond the door they entered the building from. It was marked “Employees Only: Trespassers will be shot and pissed on.”

  Ned's eyes took a moment to adjust to the light beyond the door. Inside, he saw an office not unlike those of the accountants he and his fellow members of the Sons of Satan had mocked when he was a new recruit to the biker lifestyle. “This is where we keep track of every transaction,” Weasel told him. “People will tell you that I only do it to make the Clown happy, but I would do it anyway. It just makes financial and disciplinary sense—can't have the men stealing or holding out, can we?”

  “Definitely not.”

  They passed through the office without stopping and entered a large luxurious room. There was a bar and a dance floor and couches angled to encourage conversation. “This is it, hope you like it,” said Weasel. “You were what—Lawbreakers? Bandidos?”

  “Sons.”

  “Really? Oh, well, you're gonna find us a lot more on the ball than what you're used to,” Weasel said. “We like to have fun, but business has to come first. You know.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Ned said. “You know where I've been for the last few months.”

  Weasel laughed derisively. “I don't mean to offend you, man, but those are Mexicans, we are Mexican-Americans,” he said. “There's a big difference. You won't find us selling oranges by the freeway or hanging bodies from the overpass; we are all business. We're here to get rich,”