Tank roared into the Oasis. “Got to keep our eyes out.”
“Why’s that?” I tipped my head, peered at him over my sunglasses.
“Angels.”
I knew they had a clubhouse in Rockford. Their big supporter, the Hell’s Henchmen, had staked the territory since before the 1994 bombings.
“They’re having a party,” Tank said.
“How far is their clubhouse from yours?”
“Just down the street.”
“Let’s go then.” I revved my engine.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Lead the way.”
Tank hesitated, then said, “Okay—we just have to keep our eyes out.”
I didn’t bother correcting him. Instead I signaled to the hundreds of bikers lined up behind me. “Follow me.”
We roared out of the Oasis, two abreast, tight formation, like a motorized army. A lone cop was parked on the side of the road; he stumbled out of his patrol car, dropped his radio, watched his hat blow off in a gust of wind.
I stopped at the next red light. The bikes fell into line.
“The Hells Angels’ house is right there.” Tank pointed down the street to a nondescript structure with tinfoil on the windows, bags of garbage on the lawn, bikes parked askew in the driveway.
I gave the signal to charge.
“Wait, wait, what are you doing?” Tank slid his glasses onto his forehead. Large lobotomy eyes stared at me.
“I’m going.”
“Hey, Boss,” Cockroach said as he pulled away from the pack. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Did I ask you?”
“They’re HAs.” Cockroach sat ramrod straight on his bike, his greasy whiskers twitching. Knuckle gloves covered his dirty fingernails. “We need to keep our eyes out.”
“The next person who says that is going to wear a probate vest.” I jumped the starter and roared through the light; all two hundred bikes followed.
“I don’t know about this, Boss.” Tank’s worry blew into the wind.
I waved to several stray Hells Angels on the porch. Shit, they yelled, and leapt from their lawn chairs, darted inside, bolted shut the dilapidated front door.
I lit a cigarette.
Loud thuds resounded from the garage. Panties and heels littered the walkway, and I heard a few broads scream. A Hells Angel skittered across the lawn and raced to padlock the chain-link fence. A few more hauled bike parts inside. One tripped, cut his knee on a broken bottle. Burning embers from a makeshift fire pit blew into the sky.
I took a puff.
Someone tore a corner of tinfoil from the top window and shoved an assault rifle through the crack.
“Fuck, did you see that?”
Truth: I had no idea as to my next move. If Hells Angels fired at us, I fully intended to return the bullets. I inhaled slowly. The line of bikes idled in ready position. I dropped my cigarette into the dirt and stomped out the butt.
I slid my hand inside my vest, rested my finger on the trigger of my .38, all eyes on me, waiting for my signal. Seconds ticked into minutes.
Nothing. The rifle in the window stayed pointed directly at me. The clubhouse was suddenly eerily quiet except for the roar of our motorcycles. I imagined most inside were either passed out or drunk.
“Now what?” Tank whispered.
“We party.”
The bike pack coasted slowly down the street, keeping tight formation, until it reached the Rockford clubhouse. Rows and rows of bikes parked along the street and curb, some dangerously close to the Hells Angels’ block, and when our various members funneled passed the six Rockford Outlaws, they had a little swagger.
* * *
Santa slurped a bowl of wedding soup; clear, thin liquid dribbled down his beard. Mongol, Boss of the Invaders MC, headquartered in Cedar Lake, had insisted we meet to discuss the continued viability of the peace treaty established between clubs. Chicago was off limits to the Invaders without the Outlaws’ blessing, and the Outlaws could not enter St. Louis without first notifying the Invaders.
“I heard what happened last week.” Mongol studied the menu.
“What’s he talking about?” Santa’s spoon paused midair.
“Some big guy with black hair and a black goatee challenged Hells Angels in Rockford.”
“You know anything about this?” Santa asked as he continued to slurp.
“No idea.” I swirled a piece of bread into a plate of oil.
“He ruined their party. They’re pissed. Lost revenue. They’re blaming the Outlaws.”
“Wow.” I took a bite of bread. “I wonder who that was?”
Santa glared at me. Mongol excused himself to use the bathroom. “What the fuck was that all about?”
“I have no idea.”
“Hands off—you know my policy on the Hells Angels.” Santa raised his hands in the air. “Hands off.”
“No hands were on. All I did was park across the street and smoke a cigarette.”
Santa rolled his eyes.
* * *
“Elgin is dropping out of the COC,” Ray Rayner announced the next week. “It’s not personal; it’s politics. It’s just not working for us anymore. Besides, you’re COC guy,” he said, expressing the term with his fingers. “We’re Outlaws. It’s confusing.”
“He started his own COC,” Kreeper said. “He’s selling tickets to his welcome party and promises decent food.”
“Are you worried?” Debbie asked me later.
“‘Worry’ is not part of my vocabulary. No one will buy tickets to his stupid event. There’s one thing Bozo and his circus clowns will never have.”
“What’s that?”
“Me.”
Ray Rayner missed the goal of the COC: unification, an MC world with no rivals. The Chicago Outlaws had belonged to the NCOM coalition for six years once, and unfortunately, they still thought the organization was all about domination.
“What you all need to realize,” I addressed attendees at the next patch-holders’ meeting in Oklahoma City, “is that the man makes the patch, the patch doesn’t make the man.”
* * *
The convention was held in a resort, and later I relaxed with Debbie on the patio area of the hotel bar, overlooking a grassy lawn dotted with delicate white umbrellas, pretty wooden folding chairs, and draped roses. Wedding scenery.
“Nice speech,” a Phantom Lord said as he pulled up a chair.
“Name’s TK.” He handed me his business card. “Support Your Local 81” was flashed across his vest. Lanky, with a tangled salt-and-pepper ponytail, he said with a laugh, “I never spoke to an Outlaw before. I’ll probably catch a bunch of shit for this.”
“Not if they know you were talking to Big Pete from Chicago.”
“You’re a pretty cool cat. I’m going to tell everyone about you.”
“PR from a Hells Angels supporter,” Debbie shook her head.
“‘All clubs, all people,’ joined together for a common cause—nondiscrimination,” I parroted the party line.
We headed to the elevator to prepare for the Silver Spoke Award Banquet, being held in the grand ballroom. TK joined us, along with three Phantom Lords and two Red Devils, all Hells Angels supporters. TK did not acknowledge me, did not hint at our earlier bond. He/they morphed into what they were: rivals.
Debbie’s breathing was labored as we waited for the elevator doors to open. She later told me that the hand I laid on her back felt like a brand. We communicated almost telepathically—Keep calm, no fear, no sudden moves. We were committed to the outcome. The doors whooshed open and sucked us inside. We hugged the back wall. TK and his supporters stepped behind us, so close their shoulders touched. Weapons flashed on their hips, ankles, and fingers: ball-peen hammers, man-made blades, and silver knuckle-dusters.
Debbie pushed the button for the sixth floor; no one chose a different destination. As the numbers flashed dim yellow—one, two, three—seconds felt like minutes.
The elevator doors slid open on four. A petite bride and her five maids dressed in crinkly blue satin stared wide-eyed at us. Horror registered on their faces; giggles immediately suppressed to coughs. Smiles vanished.
“We’ll wait,” the bride said as she backed away.
Trapped in a moving grave with six rivals, I contemplated my exit. No sudden moves. Debbie’s hand grazed the hilt of her knife. In the wall-to-wall mirrors, I pictured blood-smeared panels, a body count, Debbie’s long pretty hair sticky and wet, clumps of scalp in my hand. We stopped on the sixth floor. The doors opened.
“See you guys later.” Debbie and I stepped out. Blood rushed to my head. TK and his five helpers followed us down the hall.
Shit, what was happening?
Debbie’s face blanched. She focused on the mosaic rug. Keep walking; I gently pushed her forward. We quickly walked the few paces to our room.
“Do you have your key?” I wanted to keep my hands free just in case.
Debbie fumbled for her card, her hands shaking. She dropped it on the ground, scrambled to pick it up, and shoved it into the lock. Click. The little green light flashed.
TK and his clan stopped next to us; the hair on the back of my neck pricked. Debbie looked at me, her eyes pleading, Do we go inside and risk another closed encounter?
“Well, have a good evening,” TK finally broke the silence as he shoved his key into a door and ushered his group inside.
“Holy fuck,” we said as we both collapsed on the bed. “What are the odds of that? They have the room next door?”
* * *
After breakfast the next morning, TK and the others stood wall to wall in a roomful of thousands (all wearing their club colors) and listened to a minigovernment assembly comprised of state senators, a mayor, and several lawyers explain to us bikers the subtle nuances of certain bills, legislation, and strategies for repeal.
“We’re all here to protect the lifestyle that comes with wearing the MC patch,” a lawyer for the motorcycle company AIM said as he described the latest successful challenges to injustice.
He cited the government’s Defender Program, which successfully pressured the prosecution to bring a manslaughter charge against a blind female motorist with no license who’d “killed a biker and received a slap on the hands.” She was subsequently sentenced to twelve years in prison, he told us, eliciting resounding applause from our audience.
The lawyer stressed the pitfalls of the Patriot Act (passed shortly after 9/11 and used initially to round up known terrorists and ship them to Guantanamo), an “absolutely unconstitutional” provision that has “outlived its usefulness” and now “gives law enforcement the authority to arrest you and hold you without due process.” More cheers from the crowd. But “the worst affront,” the lawyer said, practically inciting a riot with this news, “is legislation that threatens to lump motorcycle clubs along with street gangs.… The Defender Program has tabled it—it’s been tabled.” Huge applause.
“Hope we didn’t keep you up last night,” TK said with a grin at the break. He was alone and could speak freely. “I told those guys you were Boss of the Outlaws.”
“Yeah, okay.” I smiled.
“You know”—he lowered his voice—“you should party with us.”
* * *
Hours later, I settled into the lobby of the hotel in large overstuffed comfy chairs: “Big People Furniture.” TK and his entourage walked by. No eye contact; no acknowledgment—again, in “the club zone.” Debbie glanced at me.
“Fuck this.” I spread my hands on the armrest. “I’m going up.”
Alarm registered in Debbie’s expression.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“If you’re not down in five minutes should I send in a rescue party?”
“Yes.”
I knocked on TK’s door. I heard a click inside, and what sounded like a loud thud. TK slid back the dead bolt; behind him, Phantom Lords pressed against the wall.
“Want a blast?”
“Yeah, sure.” TK ushered me inside. Cocaine lined a flat mirror on the coffee table. I really didn’t feel like sitting. The chair was a snack-sized version of the one in the lobby.
“Listen, I want to talk to you.”
TK glanced at his roommates. He rubbed his hands on his jeans and nodded toward the balcony. We stepped into the warm night. He slid the Arcadia door shut.
“The Outlaws are headed to Laconia next week. This you-and-me kumbaya shit ends here. In Laconia, if I see you in the halls it’s going to be a different story.”
“That sucks.”
“This is the life we chose. We’re rivals.”
TK nodded. “How do you want to play this?”
“We stay away from each other.”
It was the right call. Several months later I learned TK and his supporters became Hells Angels.
26
THE HELP
You’re fucked and you shall remain fucked.
—BIG PETE
Pete and Lou (aka “Bastardo”)
“I want to help.” Bastardo took a sip of beer.
“Do I look like I need help?”
“Let me probate.”
I shook my head.
“Is this because you exiled me once?”
“No.”
“I gave up everything for that broad.” Bastardo peeled the label off his bottle. “I even left the Black Pistons.”
“I know.”
“I married her … for like five minutes.” He laughed.
“That’s not why I’m saying no.”
“Then why?”
It was late. We were the only ones left in the bar. The place was drafty.
“Because you want to be an Outlaw and there aren’t any left.”
Bastardo pretended to read the ingredients on the beer label. I could tell he was crushed. He had a vision of the Outlaws the way they were in the ’90s after the bombings. But thanks to Santa and Ray Rayner and other clowns, the Chicago Outlaws were just a bastardized version of their gangster cousins.
Still, I relented. “If you really want to do this, I’ll sponsor you.”
“I really want to do this.” Bastardo brightened.
We climbed on our bikes, cruised down Mannheim Road, Bastardo looking every bit my reflection, a huge grin on his face. Then his .38 snub-nose slipped out, hit the road hard, and fired off a bullet.
If I had not been drinking, I would have shot him.
* * *
Brothers were eager to offer advice to Bastardo (even though he needed none). “The key,” the Outlaw Judas said as he pretended to read an article in the Chicago Tribune, “is do not murder anyone”—this tip coming from a felon who’d served six years in prison for “self-defense” after stabbing his victim twenty times in the back.
“What’s that word say?” He shoved the article at me. It was upside down.
“‘The,’” I said.
“Why do you got to be such an asshole?”
“He’s a terrible enforcer,” Coyote remarked once about Judas. “He never finds anyone.”
It was true. I’d once wanted to send a cease-and-desist message to a bar owner who lived above his bar, and directed Judas to “deliver it.”
Several hours later Judas reported back to me, “I couldn’t find him. He’s slippery.”
“Devils Disciples are trying to start a chapter here.” Coyote had tracked down his source and gave Judas the information on him.
“Follow up with that,” I ordered. “The guy has no job and sleeps on his mother’s couch.”
Predictably, Judas returned with nothing. “I couldn’t find him.”
“Why do you keep him?” Bastardo asked.
“Damage control. If I don’t keep him occupied he will become a real problem.”
Grease’s warning echoed in my head: “There’s a reason people got nicknames. That one Judas, he’s not young enough to know everything … yet.”
“The president
of Sin City Deciples refuses to accept that you Outlaws sanctioned us.” The Professor’s voice boomed over The Jerry Springer Show. I adjusted the volume on the television. It was still early, at least two hours before I planned to head into the “office.”
“First of all,” I said, loud and slow, “I never sanction anything, and don’t ever use that word again.” I pictured Feds, like crocodiles, lurking in swampy shallows, just waiting to surface and snap off the heads of small bait for what they called “predicate acts” under RICO. The last thing I needed was for the Outlaws to be “sanctioning” Ma and Pa Kettle” as they trafficked in arms or drugs.
A Sin City Deciple got on the line. “They’re saying you sanctioned them.”
“We’re friends. Their club supports us.”
“We don’t want them running around down here.”
“Down where?”
“Gary.”
“You do realize you’re talking to an Outlaw?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.” I shot to my feet. “Put The Professor back on the phone.”
“Speaking.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Hold up—he wants to talk to you again.” The Professor put me on hold.
I threw the remote at Jerry Springer’s head and put a small chip in the television.
A few seconds later: “I’m going to have to report this to my National,” the voice mumbled over the line.
“Report what?”
“That your club sanctioned Ole Skool Road Playerz.”
That word again.
“National will be in touch with you.”
“You do whatever the fuck you feel you have to. Goodbye.”
Debbie whisked a dozen eggs into a bowl. She arched a brow. “I know that tone.”
“What tone?”
“That icy, monosyllabic ‘gubye’ you reserve for people you plan to hurt.”
Two hours later, my cell buzzed. Caller ID flashed a Gary, Indiana, area code.
“Big Pete speaking.”
The Last Chicago Boss Page 18