Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle

by Jerry Langton

  He had not yet revealed to the other officers that it was the Cossacks who were supplying the area with coke and meth. Keeping them busy and out of the loop allowed him time to think and plan out his own strategies. They did not know that the Cossacks' new star drug dealer also just happened to be a rat who was going to help Big Red get rich.

  The three officers dressed as bikers were worn out by the time they arrived at the bathtub. Two of them sat, while the fattest, Frank “Lunker” West (originally from Seattle and still bedeviled by the Arizona sun), lay down in the shade. An outdoorsy-looking couple entered the area from a different trail but, upon seeing the Tortured Souls, decided to keep hiking.

  “So this is the spot?” West asked. “Sure doesn't look like much.”

  “It doesn't have to be,” Big Red answered. “All these guys need is a familiar landmark—meet me at the bathtub is a pretty clear sentence—it doesn't have to be the Eiffel Tower to be a meeting place.”

  The other officer, Kellen Rogers (better known by his Tortured Souls nickname, “Dawg”), offered his opinion. “Yeah, when I was working in Cincinnati,” he said, “there was an old oak tree everyone knew about—after a while, you could say ‘meet me at the tree’ and that would be enough.”

  “So who's moving the stuff through here?” West asked. “Obviously it's one of the cartels moving it up, but who's distributing it on the streets?”

  “From what I've been able to uncover, there are a number of gangs on the streets,” Rogers said. “Cincos, Los Toltecas, the Cossacks.”

  “All Mexican,” Big Red pointed out. “And they only sell to other Mexicans.”

  “That's not entirely true,” Rogers retorted. “An informant I have told me that the Cossacks are making very significant inroads in the . . .”

  “The Cossacks?” Big Red scoffed as convincingly as he could manage. “Don't make me laugh. Those guys couldn't organize a piss-up at a brewery. At best they are mules, ferrying the stuff to the hub up in Denver.”

  “Well, somebody's putting product on the pavement from Nogales to Tucson and points beyond,” piped West. “If it's not the Hells Angels and it's not the Cossacks, then who the hell is it?”

  Big Red grinned. “Well, I guess it's our job to find that out, now isn't it?”

  * * *

  Speedy was in his office going over the payroll when he heard a knock on his door. “What is it?” he shouted. Alphonso, the bouncer who was also his primary assistant, entered. “There's a man here to see you,” he told him. “From Mexico, says it's very important.”

  “You recognize him?”

  Alphonso, who had moved to Arizona from Milwaukee only a year earlier felt awkward. To him, many Mexicans actually did look very much alike and he was honestly not entirely sure he had not met this man before. Quickly weighing the odds, Alphonso said that he hadn't.

  “Send him in anyway.”

  Speedy was pleasantly surprised to see Francisco “Frankie X” Beltran Vazquez, his cousin and a brother-in-law of his old friend El Guason. He instructed Alphonso to get some beer and invited Frankie in. “I guess you heard about me and what happened with the Cossacks,” Speedy said to him, prepared to apologize. “You'd have done the same thing, though. That Crash pendejo just pushed me too far.”

  Frankie was surprised. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “I quit the Cossacks,” he told him. “I had to. That guy Poco Loco sent up here was screwing everything up, taking everything for himself.”

  “El Espagueti?” Frankie chuckled. “I'm surprised he's still alive—always seemed like the ultimate fuck-up to me. I can't believe you let him push you around. Trust me, he won't be a problem.”

  “You don't know, man,” Speedy said in his own defense. “He may give the impression he doesn't know what's going on, but he is pretty fucking clever under the surface.”

  “I do know, my old friend,” Frankie smiled. “He's done, you can even kill him yourself if you want to.”

  “But Poco Loco . . .”

  “Is dead.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, believe it or not, the Clown is dead,” Frankie said, grinning widely.

  “How?”

  “You won't believe this, but El Azucarero, we believe, was in the hands of Los Zetas,” Frankie said. “He led the naval infantry and the Federales up to the big house in the mountains near Bambuto. There was a shoot-out and Poco Loco took a couple—well—a couple dozen hits. Some of it was from a .50-caliber, so he was mostly just shreds when they were done with him.”

  “I can't believe it, I really can't,” Speedy said. “But how do you know it was El Azucarero?”

  “The fuckin' Zetas put a video up on YouTube bragging about it,” he said. “They claimed it was one of Poco Loco's closest confidantes who did him in, and after we counted all the bodies and the men behind bars, the only one missing was El Azucarero.”

  “His family is going to get a nasty surprise, I'll bet.”

  “Who cares?”

  “What do you mean?” Speedy was shocked. “We must avenge the deaths of Poco Loco and the others.”

  Frankie laughed. “Sure, whatever,” he said. “All I know is that this moves all of us up a couple of notches in the organization at the very least—and we don't have to listen to Poco Loco's annoying neo-communist speeches anymore. I, for one, won't miss him at all.”

  Speedy acknowledged Frankie's pragmatic point with a chuckle. “I guess you're right. I think that all his politics were keeping us back anyway, nobody who wants to get rich wants to be told what to do by a communist. I sure as hell don't. It was keeping us from getting the best talent,” he said. “So who's in charge now?”

  “Again, I have to say you are not going to believe this,” Frankie said. “It's El Cubano.”

  “No way!” Speedy's mind reeled. El Cubano was Edgar Beltran Villareal, a first cousin of both Speedy and Frankie X. It was indeed good news. And the look on Speedy's face indicated to Frankie that he understood the sum and the gravity of what had happened.

  “Slow down, Jefe. We can celebrate later,” Frankie said. “But now we have to make a few plans.”

  “Are you staying up here?”

  “Nope, I'm running the ranch house from here on in,” he said with pride. “El Ratón got popped. They were gonna give it to El Guason, but he's hitting the bottle pretty heavy, and they need him as a sicario—he's still the best we have. No matter how drunk he gets, he just seems to have a talent for killing people.”

  “And me?”

  “I think you know the answer to that,” Frankie said. “You should stay up here and move product.”

  “No, no, no, that's what that pendejo Crash is doing,” said Speedy. “I quit the Cossacks yesterday.”

  Frankie chuckled. “You think those customers are loyal to El Espagueti?” he said. “It's drugs we're moving here, and these people have no other choice. We have them, they need them, and now, thanks to your guero friend, they know where to get them. They don't need him anymore, they're all grown up now, they can let go.”

  Speedy laughed. “I'm pretty sure I pissed Weasel off pretty badly, though,” he said. “And no matter what anybody says, he is the Cossacks here.”

  “And he knows how to make money and he definitely knows how to spend money,” Frankie said in a reassuring tone. “I'm pretty sure he'll welcome you back to the Cossacks. I think they're going to have a vacant spot soon.”

  Speedy laughed. Things were looking good for him. Once Crash was out of the picture, he could rejoin the Cossacks. Or, if the offer was better, he could try the Tortured Souls. Either way, El Cubano would make sure he was well taken care of.

  * * *

  Weise laughed. Tovar shot him something of a dirty look. “What's so funny?” he asked.

  “You,” he answered. “You are so excited to see this woman that you're actually speeding.”

  Tovar laughed. “Shit, you're right—I actually am speeding,” he said. “But, I have
to admit, I really want to know what she has to say.”

  The agent and his intern were racing down Highway 19 to interview a woman who had called them that morning. She said she may have recognized the man in their flyer. They made a date to meet her at her home at noon.

  It was a nice, well-manicured bungalow in the semi-exclusive Tanque Verde neighborhood in Tuscon's east side. Weise noted the Prius parked outside. They parked in the driveway and approached a woman who was out front, tending her sparse garden.

  “Erin Scholtz?” Tovar asked.

  “Yes, hello. Are you the man I spoke with on the phone?”

  “No, I'm agent Tovar of the FBI, and this is my associate, Mr. Weise,” he answered as they both showed their identification. “But we are here about the telephone call.”

  “The FBI?” she asked, her eyes wide. “Is this man dangerous? Is he a criminal? All I wanted to do was help him. Your advertisement said he was sick, that he needed his medicine.”

  Weise told Scholtz that she was in no danger and that any information she gave would be totally confidential.

  She looked skeptical. “I'm not sure it was even him, this man you're looking for,” she said. “Your advertisement said he was sick and needed medicine. The man I saw was the picture of health. He looked very happy, in fact.” She went back to tending her garden, forcing them to follow her.

  “Where did you see him?” Weise asked.

  “Downtown, he was going into one of those fast-food places, Gibby's—or it may have been Sweet Pete's,” she said. “They're all the same to me. I would never go into one those places; nothing but sodium, fructose-glucose, and saturated fats on their menus, I'll tell you that. No thanks, Mr. Fast-Food Man, I choose to live healthy.”

  “It would really help if you could tell us which one.”

  “I told you I don't know,” she snapped. “It was one or the other, but it was on North Campbell around where it hits East Prince.”

  Tovar knew from experience that there was not only a Gibby's and a Sweet Pete's around that intersection, but several other similar barbeque outlets as well. “Was the man in question riding a motorcycle, like a Harley-Davidson?” he asked. “Did you see anything like that?”

  She looked at him like he was crazy. “Oh, this man was definitely not a biker,” she said. “Short, tidy hair, no beard, no beer gut, dressed nicely—are you sure we're talking about the same guy?”

  “Not everyone who rides a motorcycle looks like that, ma'am,” pointed out Weise—himself the proud owner of a Yamaha FZ6R. “Even Harley riders.”

  She looked at him sternly. “Actually, officer,” she said. “I did notice that he came out of a nice car, Volvo I think. Something like that. Not a BMW, but that type. New or very close to it. Black, if it helps.”

  “It sure does, thank you,” said Tovar, smiling. “You didn't happen to get the license plate, did you?”

  “No, I was busy and I just looked at him for a second,” she said. “I didn't even put together that he was the man in the picture until I came home. I'm sorry I can't be more help.”

  “No. No, Ms. Scholtz, you've been a great deal of help,” Tovar replied.

  After they said their good-byes and got back in the car, the two feds started discussing their prospects excitedly. Weise could hardly contain his enthusiasm and his pride in getting the FBI to that part of Arizona in the first place. Tovar was also pretty pumped, but didn't want the kid to get cocky.

  “Don't get your hopes up too high, kid, because all we have is a guy who looks like a guy that this woman saw for a second,” Tovar said. “But at least we have something on the ground now.”

  “Yeah, all we have to do is hand out his photo at every fast-food joint on grease alley,” Weise said. “If it's him, someone will have seen him and will very likely step forward.” Then he paused and asked: “Do you really think it's him?”

  Tovar smiled at the intern. “Hard to say. He's not a remarkable-looking guy, and the Volvo? That actually threw me for a loop,” he said. “It's not a cheap car by any means, and doesn't exactly scream drug dealer, let alone biker. There was nothing to indicate he had any real money when he left Delaware, so it makes me think it's just another unremarkable-looking guy minding his own business, driving his Volvo, and eating his barbecue.”

  “But we're still gonna try, right?”

  “Of course we will,” Tovar assured him. “It's all we have.”

  * * *

  While Frankie was up in Arizona telling Speedy the news about the changes at the top of the Jalisco Cartel, El Cubano (its new leader) was at the ranch house, assessing the organization's strengths and doing his best to boost his men's morale.

  The meeting went smoothly. El Guason was acting as regional boss because Speedy was on assignment in Arizona, and he had a great rapport with El Cubano. They spoke about a wide variety of operations, and eventually came to the Cossacks. El Cubano—who had seen the numbers from the operation and was surprised at how quickly it had taken off—was particularly interested in that outfit because it was something the cartel owned and operated essentially on its own, rather than through other larger organizations in the United States. The Cossacks answered directly to them, while the other gangs they used as street-level distributors such as the Lawbreakers, the MS-13, and the Crips never would.

  “This thing is becoming big,” El Cubano said to El Guason. “We need to repeat this success in other border cities, bigger ones.”

  “I'd love to do that, too, but most of those cities already have strong networks through organizations like El Barrio Azteca and the White Fence. You even see a few old Mexican mafia members doing their thing.”

  “And they will have to coexist with the Cossacks,” El Cubano answered. “Or get out of the way.”

  “I like it, but I thought we were keeping as much of our operation on this side of the border as possible,” El Guason said, surprised at his new boss's aggressiveness. “We don't want to invite the DEA down here. Look what happened in Colombia.”

  El Cubano gave him a stern look. “There are many important strategic differences between the two situations,” he said. “And it was that kind of head-to-the-ground thinking that kept us working for the Colombians for years. Then suddenly, a few forward-thinking Mexicans took matters into their own hands. That's what I'm doing here.”

  “But the DEA . . .”

  “. . . can arrest lots of people in the States, but can't come into Mexico,” El Cubano noted with an air of pride. “Here they still have to work with the same Federales and local police who can't stop us now, even with the help of the entire military.” He laughed. “What can the Americans do?” he asked “Give them more money, more helicopters and drones? It doesn't matter. We can still pay the people operating them more than they can. They will be ours.”

  El Guason contemplated the validity and potential of the boss's idea, even though he knew that he was in no place to truly question him. “For this, I think, we will need more gueros like El Espagueti,” he said in a tone that made it sound like a question. “The thinking among many up there is that he's responsible for their success.”

  “Really? Is that what he's saying?” El Cubano seemed truly offended. “Typical guero attitude, talking all the credit for other people's hard work. Makes me sick.”

  El Guason just nodded. He had grown somewhat resentful of El Espagueti after the border incident. Like many other people who had actually been there, he interpreted Ned's actions as cowardice and was shocked and angered that he received what was essentially a promotion instead of a punishment from Poco Loco. “So you are telling me that the Cossacks would have succeeded without him?” he asked.

  “Totally. Maybe his arrival sparked the others to work harder, but it was largely circumstantial,” he said. “People needed some time after the Hells Angels went down to find a new source for product and they eventually found the Cossacks. This will continue to happen if we get more boots on the ground in the U.S. More Cossacks means mor
e money, it's as simple as that. We don't need any gueros, just their money.”

  El Guason had an idea. “What about this particular guero, this Espagueti?” he asked.”Do we need him?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then you would not mind if I put that to the test?”

  El Cubano chuckled. “Get rid of him, you mean?”

  “Yeah, if we don't need him up there,” El Guason said. “He's a liability, he knows a whole lot about what goes on down here . . . could be bad for us if the DEA gets their hands on him.”

  “I'm not afraid of the DEA,” El Cubano said. “But I do agree that his continued existence does us no good. Do what you will.”

  “I'll go up tomorrow.”

  El Cubano looked shocked. “No you won't. After all the losses we've suffered we absolutely need you here,” he said. “Send someone expendable. Someone the organization wouldn't miss.”

  * * *

  Weise knew that canvassing the fast-food joints of Tucson's grease alley wouldn't be fun, but he did not think that he would run into any opposition. While Tovar took the other side of the street, Weise walked into the Gibby's on North Campbell and asked for the manager. “He's not here,” said the man behind the counter, who then asked for his order.

  The young agent told him he wasn't there to eat, then introduced himself with his FBI identification. He saw the man become visibly disturbed. “Don't worry, this has nothing at all to do with immigration,” he assured him. “We just want to put up this poster. We're looking for a man who may be in the area.” He showed the man the poster. Again he flinched. Instinctively, Weise took that as an indication that the man knew something. “Can you tell me who's in charge here?”