The Last Chicago Boss

by Kerrie Droban

  Silence.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Brad.”

  “I’ve never heard of you.”

  “My wife and I saw this stuff on the Internet.” The caller’s voice faded like background noise. Wife?

  “I’m going to call you back, Brad.”

  I hung up the phone and sat in the dark for what seemed like several minutes. A plan formed in my head: What if Brad and his old lady joined an all-inclusive motorcycle club, one that accepted everyone—broads, shines, Chinks, gays, couples, single riders?

  “Completely nondiscriminatory,” I pointed out as I explained my plan to Mr. Happy.

  “You want to create a fake motorcycle club?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “Money.” I was already planning to keep this venture a secret from the Outlaws. But I trusted Mr. Happy, and I needed his help if I was going to pull off the ruse. “Think about the earning potential. We could charge every prospective member a fee to join: two hundred dollars if they want to start their own chapter, a hundred twenty if they join as a couple, seventy-five to buy their patch. Then we could charge for business cards, T-shirts, and other merchandise. How many members belong to the American Cruisers?”

  “I don’t know, maybe a thousand?”

  My head spun with possibilities.

  “We would only need a couple of guys to make the fake club look legitimate.”

  “Posers?”

  “Black Pistons.” The rush off the planning was better than a line of coke. “We could recruit this Brad and his broad out of Southern Illinois to form the second chapter of the fake club. It’ll be great.”

  I called Brad the next morning. “I know a little club here that you may want to consider.”

  “Really?” There was static on the line. “Send me the information and I’ll review it with my wife.”

  I twisted the phone cord around my thumb. Well, shit, I wasn’t expecting that response.

  “Sure, fine. I’ll send over the stuff in a couple of days.”

  Had I completely lost my mind?

  “I’ll be taking a little trip,” I informed my Outlaw chapter later that afternoon, and over the next four days I worked feverishly, forgoing sleep, food, even showers to create the fictitious Cosmic Riders.

  “You’re killing yourself,” Mr. Happy said.

  “I’m having a blast.”

  I designed two one-piece patches for “The Cosmic Riders Association”—“His and Hers” sets. Male members could order from the computer a wolf howling at the moon; females, a white-winged Pegasus. I made the Cosmic Riders an “association” rather than an “MC” so that real one-percenters would pay no attention to them. After all, my whole objective was to make money, not get anyone killed.

  I created a Web site, wrote a mission statement, invented bylaws and a constitution, and even crafted an e-mail address. In the span of three days, I posted hundreds of messages to the site, pretending to be different bikers commenting on past events. I even wrote messages about upcoming runs and charitable fund-raisers, hoping to entice prospective members into believing the Cosmic Riders were thriving.

  The ruse reminded me of the time I owned and operated a small cable company in the city and decided to create competition by forming three additional companies (all mine) and encouraging contractors to bid against each other. None suspected they were speaking to me at all three companies.

  I read the mission statement aloud:

  “We are a family-based motorcycle club comprised of men and women. All riders are welcome…”

  I paused and added, “… on all types of bikes: sport, mini, Schwinn.…”

  I had fun with it, borrowing from my college writing days. “The mission of the Cosmic Riders,” I punched into the computer, “is the bonding of our membership into a brotherhood and sisterhood, sharing the exhilaration of the open road.” Maybe “exhilaration” was too big a word? I left it alone. “We also intend our national organization to be the central chapter for our members at large for the exchange of experiences.…” How else was I going to maintain control?

  “The primary goal is for all participants to have a good time. If it isn’t fun it isn’t worth doing.” This last line became the club’s motto and ran as a banner on the bottom in bold italics.

  After a few more reads, I considered adding the disclaimer that the Cosmic Riders, “though charitable,” did not endorse any particular cause.

  “Maybe you should explain the patches?” Debbie suggested.

  Good idea.

  I designed them based on a tarot card; the patch denoted “balance,” and the club represented “a small part of the harmonious spiritual unfettered laws of the human spirit.”

  “Too much?”

  Debbie just shook her head.

  * * *

  “They’re a hundred-percent club,” I explained to Junior, president of the Black Pistons. Why one-percenters insisted on hundreds of pages of useless bylaws no one ever read or followed puzzled me. Outlaws needed to keep things simple, to do whatever the fuck they wanted in twenty-four hours as long as they worked eight, slept eight, and partied eight.

  * * *

  “What’s in this for me?” Junior asked, considering my proposal. His father was an Outfit guy, head of the Cicero crew. Junior grew up in The Life, understood duality, secrecy, and urgency.

  “Money.”

  “You want me to pose as a Black Piston and a Cosmic Rider and involve a few more Black Pistons to keep up the pretense?”

  “They just have to model in the vests as Cosmic Riders.”

  “So this is a side deal? The Outlaws are not involved?”

  “Right.” I didn’t see a reason to split proceeds.

  “What would I have to do?”

  “Be the Boss of the Cosmic Riders.”

  “This is just on paper, right?”

  “Mostly,” I said.

  “’Cause you know I can’t ride a bike.”

  Operation Cosmic Riders went better than anticipated. Brad and his old lady signed up immediately, paid the dues, and bought the “His” and “Her” vests. They sent me pictures of the two of them at Busch Gardens, hand in hand, sporting their beer caps, beaming for the camera.

  I called Junior for daily updates. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s getting a little out of control,” he complained. Chapters were cropping up all over the country. “The fake club now has substantial membership.”

  Three chapters had formed in Illinois, two in Kentucky, one in Indiana, and one in Michigan. I solicited Brad to be the national vice president in charge of recruiting and developed “Welcome Kits” complete with framed charter certificates that chapter heads could hang on their clubhouse wall.

  Then one afternoon I received the dreaded call: “Brad’s done,” Junior said. “He plans to join a national motorcycle club.”

  24

  THE BUSINESS OF BUSINESS

  While Junior covered for me, I listened to complaints about Ray Rayner’s chapter, how Elgin extorted support clubs into paying them to attend their parties.

  “So,” Santa scribbled, “you’re saying if Elgin gives you fifteen tickets to sell for them and you only sell five, you’re responsible for the balance of the unsold tickets?”

  I marveled that Santa worked as a CPA and did taxes for Outlaws and citizens.

  “Unacceptable.” Santa put his pen down. “I’ll handle this.”

  But as usual, nothing happened.

  “You need to take care of the Elgin problem,” Hobbs, head of Low Lyfz, complained to me the next month. “Ray Rayner is out of control.”

  I met Santa in his “office,” a five-by-five-foot closet with no windows. Our shoulders touched. My heart raced, and I struggled to breathe. Santa lit a cigarette, and I worried that the ash would blow onto my chin.

  “Ray Rayner’s chapter is treating the support clubs like his personal slaves,” I pointed out to him aga
in. He regularly ordered club supporters to fix his roof, repair his shed, mix cement for his garage project, run silly errands at their own expense, and contribute to his chapter’s endless (and frivolous) fund-raisers.

  “Unacceptable.” Santa puffed and stabbed his cigarette into the walls. “I’ll take care of this.”

  But again, nothing happened.

  * * *

  “Pete, they’re drinking for free,” Beast from Unwanted complained to me privately. “We’re losing money. They’re keeping my guys up until seven A.M. They’re going behind the bar.”

  That was the ultimate insult. The support clubs had no recourse for a bully dressed in an Outlaw vest.

  Don’t get me wrong, I could care less about preserving some twisted existence that confused right and wrong, or defended the Outlaws’ predatory nature. I had my own agenda—I needed the clubs’ support to control Chicago, particularly in the wake of the Outlaws’ puppet “leadership.”

  Santa shook his head in disgust. “I’ll have a talk with them. I’ll have this problem solved in two weeks.”

  Again, nothing happened.

  I had a better solution for Beast: “Next time Ray Rayner’s chapter orders drinks, charge them. If Elgin refuses to pay, tell them the drinks are going on Big Pete’s tab.”

  “What the fuck is up with Elgin?” a Regional Boss from the Florida chapter asked me the next week.

  “You’ll have to be more specific,” I said.

  “They’re bringing their old ladies with them wherever they go.”

  It was true: Ray Rayner actually suggested skipping Church once in February because it interfered with Valentine’s Day.

  “It’s embarrassing,” I said to Santa.

  “Unacceptable.”

  * * *

  But some affronts required intervention. Once I noticed an old fucker hobble with a cane into an Outlaw party, dressed in a probate vest.

  “Who is that?” I asked Ray Rayner.

  “He’s my probate.”

  “I know what he is—why is he?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “How old is he?”

  “Fifty-two.”

  “Why are we accepting geriatrics into the club?”

  “Big Dog did.”

  I vaguely remembered that call. “He’s a good guy, Pete,” Big Dog from Kankakee had pled his case.

  “He’s old.”

  “I like him.”

  “He’s too old—no,” I repeated.

  “I’m calling Santa.”

  I pulled Santa aside at a party.

  “Did you tell Big Dog he could accept an over-the-hill probate into his club?”

  Santa’s eyes widened. “I know nothing about that.”

  “He’s the one who gave me permission,” Big Dog said, indignant and insistent over the line.

  “Unacceptable,” I said to Santa. “Take care of it or I will.”

  But Santa didn’t. Instead, he ordered Big Dog to take the fall and send the probate packing. The probate should have sat in a chair while a national enforcer drilled both eyes until they bruised and filled with pus.

  “So, I can keep my probate right?” Ray Rayner said.

  Why bother? Why not just purchase Chicago rockers and dispense with the whole probating shit? The Outlaws, after all, were just grown men playing army.

  * * *

  Indigo, the new vice president of the South Side, caught my arm and whispered in broken English, “I just spotted a few California rockers.”

  Alarm shot through me. Angels here at the party? “What’s the top say?” I scanned the partygoers, but the crowd was too dense.

  “Not sure.” Indigo’s head came up to my elbow.

  “Go look and count,” I said.

  A few minutes passed, and Indigo trotted up to me, sweaty, anxious. “There’s two of them. The rockers say ‘Sons of Anarchy.’” He pronounced the last syllable as a “ch.”

  “What?”

  Indigo repeated the name.

  “That’s a fucking television show!”

  * * *

  At the next Regional Bosses’ chapter meeting, Santa produced the “Rules” he received at the last National Convention. The list exceeded three pages. Never mind that we were supposed to be the one percent of the population that broke ninety-nine percent of all rules.

  “I can’t read these with a straight face,” I said as I flipped through the pages. “Rule #20: DON’T WEAR ‘SUPPORT’ ON THE BACK OF A T-SHIRT? Rule #21: IF A BROTHER FROM ONE REGION EXCHANGES A T-SHIRT WITH A BROTHER FROM ANOTHER REGION THAT BROTHER CAN’T WEAR THAT SHIRT. Why?”

  “If something goes down in a region that’s not that brother’s region and the T-shirt reads ‘Chicago’ on the bottom rocker, for example, then the shirt will bring heat to that other region.”

  I waited for Santa’s lips to stop moving. “What?”

  Santa opened his mouth again in protest, but I cut him off. “If something goes down in someone else’s region, don’t you think Feds will review surveillance cameras, physical descriptions, recordings? They’re not going to rely on a fucking T-shirt as identification.”

  “It’s a rule,” Santa whimpered.

  “How are you going to enforce this?”

  “It’s in the constitution,” Santa said.

  “Then it’s time for a revision.”

  “We’re supposed to follow the rules,” Santa repeated. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This went against everything I believed in. It seemed there were more rules to being a good criminal than there were to being a good CPA.

  “We’re one-percenters. We aren’t supposed to do anything.” I was tempted to design a square patch with an embroidered “100%” and hand it out at the next meeting, but instead I designed my own T-shirt, black on black, and in shiny black lettering printed, “Go Fuck Yourself.”

  * * *

  As if the rules were not bad enough, there was the mysterious disappearance of the $55,000 brothers had contributed over the last two years toward funerals, regional dues, and Taco’s defense fund.

  “What happened to the money?” I asked Santa.

  “Can I call you back? I’m putting in a transmission.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  Some conversations had to be done in person. I waded through the smoke in Santa’s tiny office. It was the size of two airplane bathrooms shoved together; no room to pace. I stood, pressed against the wall, inhaling smoke and feeling light-headed.

  “What happened to the fifty-five thousand dollars?”

  Santa looked at me, his eyes bugging.

  “Fucking Bull.” He took a long puff on his cigarette. And it occurred to me that “Fucking Joker” had now morphed into “Fucking Bull,” Santa’s appointed treasurer.

  “A lot of chapters just simply aren’t paying,” Santa said.

  “Why?”

  “I know nothing about that”—his standard line. “You’d have to ask Bull.”

  “I plan on it.” I organized a meeting with the chapter treasurers to find out how $55,000 just disappeared.

  Two weeks later the treasurers gathered in my office. Some brought receipts, cash, or handwritten ledgers, and I went around the table firing off questions; it was a little like playing Russian roulette, only I never got to pull the trigger.

  “Turns out,” I reported to Santa, “the most any of the chapters owe totals a hundred bucks.”

  Santa blanched.

  “Taco’s lawyer still needs to be paid,” I said. “And the Outlaw Nation is owed a percentage.”

  “Fucking Bull,” Santa mumbled.

  “Fucking Bull” was recovering from a bike wreck. He hobbled into my office looking like smashed meat. The side of his head was shaved and stiches zippered across his scalp. He propped his crutches on the wall and eased into a chair.

  “What happened to fifty-five thousand dollars?”

  “My head is going to explode.” Bull massaged his temple. “I’m so dope
d up right now I can’t even think.”

  “He’s out,” I told Santa. Either Bull really stole the money and Santa was truly oblivious, or Santa had conspired with Bull. It didn’t matter; I couldn’t prove anything.

  But I could do damage control. And so I assigned my trusted friend and brother Maurice to oversee the operations and gave Santa a debit card. This way I could track his expenses even when he lied.

  Debits reflected dinners at Cracker Barrel, Dairy Queen, hotel expenses for parties he attended “in town” and stayed over for two nights.

  “The fucker lives a hundred thirty miles from Chicago,” Maurice remarked.

  “So?”

  “So he drives up the night before, stays for two hours, and leaves the next day. That’s a ‘write-off’ for him.” Maurice chuckled. “Wouldn’t it just be easier to kick him out?”

  Truth? I didn’t want Santa’s job. I wanted to control him. And though he was technically my superior, he deferred to me. I had him exactly where I wanted him: powerless. And it was important he understood that.

  25

  HIGH NOON

  Rockford, Illinois, a town I would ordinarily only stop to take a piss in while traveling between Chicago and Madison, was home to a struggling Outlaw chapter with, at most, six members. When they threw a party, twelve people on average attended.

  “Let’s show them some love,” I announced at the next COC meeting, and rallied hundreds of bikers from thirty-seven chapters for the run. Rockford was within my “sphere of influence”; 25 percent of the clubs in the COC, after all, were located north of Chicago.

  But no one had a clue where the new Rockford clubhouse had moved. So the pack of two hundred bikers agreed to convene at the Belvidere Oasis, a rest area off the freeway, to get directions from Tank, the lone scout Outlaw from the Rockford chapter.

  The image reflected in my rearview mirror of hundreds of bikes undulating over rolling hills was very nearly orgasmic. The bike united us, made us all “outlaws,” no matter our club. We became a force, defying rules, limits, patterns; splitting lines; disrupting traffic. Without the bike, we were just men in costume, gathering nightly in bars to drink, fight, and score. The bike set us apart; it defined us, gave us purpose.

  Debbie once marveled at my transformation from Just Pete to Big Pete to Biker Pete. My “whole face changed,” she said, when I straddled my Harley; I “radiated confidence” and “exuded a nearly superhuman strength”—man and his machine—mirrored by the riders rumbling behind me. We were so much more, she went on, than a “cult of thugs.”