“I’m done,” I told Santa.
“Too late. I’m throwing you out.”
“I quit.”
“You can’t quit. I threw you out.”
“I’m already out.”
* * *
And like dominoes, the rest fell: Bastardo, Nunn, Stones; resigned, transferred, left.
* * *
On February 9, 2015, before a crowd of two hundred people from thirty-five clubs, I gripped the podium for the last time, inhaled sharply, absorbed the sea of loyal faces jutting from dark coats dusted with snow. They reminded me of bobbing heads. And I was their executioner about to deliver the final startling blow.
I didn’t rehearse my exit speech; I don’t think I even realized it was going to happen when it did. But maybe all great leaders instinctively know when their rule is over, when it’s time to leave the stage, end their own production before the bad reviews hit. I knew what I wanted to say—that this outlaw life was all a façade, a game, like Go. I knew the rules of play well, the one where “white is at the end of his rope” with “no way to increase his liberties [territories],” and the last one too, the “ko rule, which prevents repetitive capture.”
The rule simply states:
THE PREVIOUS BOARD POSITION CANNOT BE RE-CREATED.
I knew that. And even as I said the words—“I’m done. It’s over”—guilt tugged at me. I could no longer protect the clubs I’d helped form.
* * *
The first cry for help came in at eight o’clock, the night of Twisted Image’s anniversary party.
Coyote invited me. Only me.
“No, it’s your club, your friends. I’ll pass.”
“Sure, Boss?” Coyote still called me that.
“Yeah.”
* * *
Debbie and I spent the night instead observing a Hells Angels party. Now that I was no longer officially Regional Boss I could be a curious observer of weeds sprouting through patches of concrete. We took the car, parked a few blocks from the Angels’ party, tucked behind rows of Harleys stacked along the curb.
“What do you see?” Debbie strained to see over my shoulder.
“A crowd.”
It was true. A small army formed near the entrance. Angel supporters, clubs I had not seen in droves before. My chest tightened. My fingers tingled. I could no longer feel my toes. Pain shot through me. Debbie put her hand on my knee. I shared my binoculars; a piece of my soul slipped away.
“Chicago’s lost.”
* * *
“Boss.” Coyote dissolved into a coughing fit. This didn’t sound good. I put the phone on speaker.
“What’s wrong?”
“Judas jumped me.” In the background kids wailed, a female sobbed, and a little voice pleaded, “You’re going to be okay, Papa? Right?” An ambulance sawed the night.
Coyote filled in the details.…
Twisted Image’s anniversary party had just begun; brothers and their kids, wives, and family members were arriving. Burgers sizzled on the backyard grill, pitchers of iced lemonade shared space with cases of cold beer. The fence surrounding the clubhouse had a few holes; rusted barbed wire poked through worn grassy sections. Tunnels large enough for rodents popped into the street. The front door burst open; Judas and his entourage of fifteen Outlaws marched inside.
“Sorry we’re late, but we missed the invite.” Judas flicked his lighter on and off, flames licking the edges of tablecloths. He held it close to Coyote’s lips, singed off a few mustache hairs.
“We’ll take the rag.”
But Coyote resisted; his patch represented everything he believed in: club, code, God, country. “I told him to fuck off.”
Judas and several others closed in, circled him like prey, and pounced. Taking hard slams to the jaw, Coyote dropped to his knees. The bottle Coyote gripped shattered and bits of brown glass embedded in his little girl’s cheek.
This part of Coyote’s story sent chills down my spine. It wasn’t wrong for Judas and his Outlaws to attack Coyote; in fact, if they chose to beat Coyote up every day of the fucking week I wouldn’t care. But Judas and the others crossed an invisible line. They acted like thugs, not gangsters. And they exacted retribution in front of wives and children, in front of Coyote’s daughter. I was actually amazed Coyote didn’t leave in an ambulance.
“He kicked me in the head until my eyes swelled shut. Then he ordered them all to attack. Body after body slammed on top of me, crushed my lungs, flattened my arms to the floor, and shattered my kneecap. I couldn’t breathe.”
His daughter screamed, “Papa, Papa, you’re going to be all right?”
“I don’t know anymore. Everything’s changed.”
I let him go. Nausea roared in the back of my throat. I fell into my chair, remote in hand, and stared silently at a blank television screen. My skin itched, as if burned to the pink. It hurt to touch, to cover, to feel anything, even air. This kind of exposure reduced me, shamed me. I was not a part of Judas’s Outlaws, his gang of marauding psychopaths.
I could no longer protect Coyote or any of the clubs I had helped create. Coyote, like his kids, like all of them, begged for deliverance, for relief. They were lambs being brought to the slaughter. And if I closed my eyes, I could see them in the dark, in the stillness, waiting, waiting, as one by one their little necks cracked.
NOTES
Preface
1. Calo, The Godfather
2. Let The Games Begin
1. Petersen, James R., Playboy, November 1, 2000, “The Biker Wars: Bar Fights, Car Bombings and Cold-Blooded Murder—It Was a Local but Brutal Conflict Between the Outlaws and the Hells Angels”
3. My Playbook
1. Stuffed grape leaves
4. The Loyal Order
1. A probationary member vying for full-patch status in the club.
2. Outlaw motorcycle clubs are distinguished by a “1%er” diamond patch worn on the colors signifying the one percent of motorcyclists who disobey 99% of the laws.
5. On The Island Of Misfit Toys
1. He would later become the National Boss of the Outlaws MC.
2. Wheeler, the Outlaws’ international president Taco Bowman’s successor, was indicted in September 2002 along with thirteen others for racketeering, conspiracy to commit racketeering, and conspiracy to distribute drugs. He is serving sixteen and a half years in prison.
6. Deconstructing Charlie
1. Frank wrote a lot of poetry, including the line, “Riders of the Highway, Brothers ’til the end, Our way of life, The world doesn’t comprehend.”
7. Wiseguys
1. Unlike New York’s infamous Five Families, the Chicago mob consists of only one family, called “the Outfit.” It is organized into a variety of “crews” that engage in criminal activity.
2. A higher associate
3. “Biker War Erupts in Illinois” by Jerry Thomas, Chicago Tribune, November 20, 1994
4. While New York typically received most of the attention for LCN, Al Capone and the Chicago LCN were also players. Over time the crews blended into legitimate businesses and unions—cold-blooded murder attracted unwanted attention from law enforcement.
9. We, The People
1. Odeum Expo Center in Villa Park, Illinois
10. Neutral Ground
1. A nonprofit motorcycle rights organization dedicated to freedom of the road for all motorcyclists.
2. Later the Hells Angels partnered with the Hawks and formed a cartel.
11. The Angels Are Coming
1. Ray Rayner was a cast member of Bozo’s Circus, a show on Chicago’s WGN-TV.
13. Life Of The Party
1. Bondage and discipline, sadism and masochism
14. The Other Me
1. “Chicago’s Architectural History,” by Dennis McKnight
15. Guns N’ Roses
1. Amerigo Bonasera, from Mario Puzo�
��s The Godfather
16. Lobster Sauce
1. Genco is the name of the olive oil store in The Godfather.
18. Karate G-Man
1. The Chicago Outfit and Outlaws
2. The Large Guy, Michael Sarno, was convicted in 2010 and sentenced to twenty-five years in prison. Eventually Mr. Happy was also indicted and received sixty years; six others, including a former Berwyn police officer, were indicted on charges of racketeering and conspiracy.
20. The Fall
1. The club evolved into the Blue Knights, an all-cop club.
2. Aka Roy Cody Cooper
3. A Clockwork Orange, Anthony Burgess
21. Shelter From The Storm
1. Chad Wilson, a Canadian and member of the Dago chapter of the Hells Angels in San Diego
2. Jurors acquitted them of attempted first-degree murder.
3. John Midmore, a citizen of both Canada and Australia and a prospect of the Haney chapter of the Hells Angels in British Columbia, Canada
4. At “Custer’s Last Stand,” a force of seven hundred men led by Custer suffered a severe defeat. Five of the 7th Calvary’s twelve companies were annihilated; Custer was killed. Custer’s actions and the battle have been studied extensively by historians.
5. Outlaws Forever Forever Outlaws
6. Fuck the World
7. See Vagos, Mongols, and Outlaws: My Infiltration of America’s Deadliest Biker Gangs, by Kerrie Droban and Charles Falco.
26. The Help
1. He actually became one. (Vagos and Hells Angels are chief rivals.)
PS
two years later
I could act in a Shakespearean play. But I could not pretend to live.
Cancer spreads. It begins with changes in a single cell or small group of cells. At first the shifts are subtle, barely noticeable. Small discomfort in the core, then sharp bursts of pain signal the first alarms. Fatigue follows, an extreme, debilitating slowdown. Inside, malignant tumors invade nearby tissues, break off, travel through the blood, and form new mutations. My kidneys malfunction. It’s like I’m rotting from the inside.
When I ask my oncologist about treatment and possible cures, he responds, “There’s always hope.” That’s not what I asked, and I’m not a “hope” guy. My games are Go, Risk, chess, Monopoly, and building whole civilizations in my mind.
“I don’t like these odds,” I say. “Let’s start over. You go first.”
He listened, but what could he do? He had already removed one of my kidneys.
Remission is like regrouping, pep-talking the remaining combat soldiers to perform double-time for the same pay. At first they do it willingly. They respect their general. They believe in the mission—the elimination of waste. A rotting foundation will only kill them all. And so they fight, they train, they prepare daily for the rigors of conquest. They survive, but they hardly thrive.
“How are you feeling?” my doctors ask during checkups. I have so many. They test my blood, my urine. They look inside me, but they do not see me.
I have dreams of being an inflatable.
“I’m fine.” It’s only a partial lie.
It’s early March, still frigid cold outside. As I pull into the hospital parking lot for yet another scope, the windchill reminds me of the corn beef and cabbage parties North Side hosted. Every year we celebrated James Earl Ray’s birthday. I know what you’re thinking: He assassinated Martin Luther King; he’s a murderer.
* * *
I insisted toward the end that we change the theme to St. Patrick’s Day. My hypocrisy will only go so far.… after all, I chaired a confederation of thirty-seven clubs, some of which had shines as bosses. I fought against discrimination and white supremacist factions. My legacy was inclusion (as long as the clubs supported my club). No rogues. No malignant cells.
Outlaws circled the North Side clubhouse, cold, anxious.
“Do you think they’re ready?” Debbie, who sat in the backseat, wiped frost from the window with her glove. Soldiers are never prepared for the recoil. Still, I liked to give them practice.
St. Patrick’s Day Party (formerly Corn Beef)
“Watch this,” and like a switch I flicked on “Angry Pete.” I warned Bastardo, “Don’t react. I have to get into character and pretend I’m pissed.” I slammed the car door, tensed, my hands balled into fists.
I boomed, “What the fuck is happening here?”
Brothers scrambled, some falling and nearly toppling to the pavement. Others just stared at me, mouths startled open, completely at a loss as to what to say, do, undo. Wind tickled my beard, cut into my cheeks. I raged on, my voice hollow in my ears as if I were standing at one end of a long tunnel. The brothers lined up single file, heads bowed in supplication, looking ill.
“Everything’s ready for you, Boss,” one mumbled. I already knew that. Otherwise they would still all be inside the clubhouse.
I played on, enjoying the conflicting emotions my fake tirade caused. “Ready for me? You motherfuckers think you know what I want? You think you know me? You don’t know me. You know what I let you know about me.”
“There’s a dark mass on my other kidney?”
“It’s not growing at the moment.” The doctor probably thought he was being positive.
“At the moment”? What did that mean?
“Can it be stopped?”
“We have to watch it.”
It was like watching a dark storm swirling a few miles away. Soon, it would blow in and take with it my soul. It was the most helpless I have ever felt in my life. This wasn’t me in any form. I didn’t watch impending chaos voluntarily. I ran the third-largest city in the United States. I spoke regularly to crowds of bikers about topics that mattered. I rallied support for the Chicago Outlaws from clubs who ordinarily despised us. I lived life on my terms. But even Caesar can’t be Caesar forever.
I did not cause my cancer. Nor can I stop the spread of tumors. I can only control the symptoms and make strategic choices that might slow the growth. Eventually, I know, I will lose this battle. It’s inevitable. Cancer kills. Cancer destroys. Cancer transforms before it rebuilds and multiplies and mutates healthy cells.
The Chicago Outlaws I led are not the Outlaws I left, not the Outlaws who remain.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
FROM BIG PETE,
This book has been a labor of love, trust, and faith. It would not have been possible without the help of the following people: Lou “Bastardo” Caracci, the best brother a man could have; as Wyatt Earp said to Doc Holliday, “Thanks for always being there.” Maria Palermo, who pitched in whenever asked. Dr. Chadi Nabhan, my oncologist, without whose care I’m not sure I would have survived to write this book.
And these people, who stuck by my side and when things changed never wavered from our friendship: Tony “Kickback” Wallenberg, Scot “Gypse” Patterson, AJ “Mule” Watson, Dave “Redwood” Russell, Thomas “Monster” Williford, Eric “Big Man” Guajardo, Nick and Anna Urso, and my old college buddies John Bourne and Jim Schuessler.
All the men and women of the Confederation of Clubs who didn’t abandon me and had the faith to realize I hadn’t changed. Thanks, and I love you all.
Next, I would like to give a special loving “Thank you” to my mother, Diana James, and to my father, Ernest P. James, who taught me to be the man I am. I wish you were here so I could tell you I finally made it. To my sister, Demetra Ness, who has shown me so much love. To my late brother, Michael E. James. To my daughter, Jessica, whom I love very much. To my mother- and father-in-law, Dianne and David Plowman, who never judge me. To Luke Plowman, my brother-in-law. To my cousins Demetra, Niko, and Maria Lakerdas. To the Peter and Tana Ladas family who always had a helping hand for me.
I offer a very special thanks to Kerrie Droban, who listened to my tirades and rambling, whose understanding made this book possible. I couldn’t have done this with anyone but her. She wro
te this book and has become a valued friend. To Bob Diforio, my agent, who did a great job and took my obnoxious questions in stride!
To Brutus James, the best dog a man could ever want, who came into my life at just the right time.
Lastly, I would like to thank my ever-loving wife, Debbie, who has gone above and beyond anything a man could expect from a wife and best friend. Through good times and bad, highs and lows, thick and thin, she has been by my side, my rock. Thank you, my love—you’ve made me a better man. I love you very much.
Thanks again to all the people I mentioned, and thanks to all the people I’ve met on this great journey I call my life!!
—Peter “Big Pete” James
FROM KERRIE,
This book is dedicated to my children, whom I will always cherish. Their endless love and constant support have sustained me through the darkest of times. Thank you to my agent, Bob Diforio, who believed in this project, and to Tammy Hardy for your laughter, friendship, and beautiful “writer’s” cabin in the woods where I wrote much of this book.
ALSO BY KERRIE DROBAN
Vagos, Mongols, and Outlaws: My Infiltration of America's Deadliest Bike Gangs (with Charles Falco)
A Socialite Scorned: The Murder of a Tucson High-Roller
The Last Chicago Boss Page 20