Koz loaned me $3,000 cash in government funds. The bills crumpled in my front pocket. Terrible had assured me several hours earlier when I bought him a burger at Jack in the Box that he knew a big meth supplier named Rancid.
“Where is he?” I pressed, the hamburger settling in my stomach like a rock.
“Late.”
“Or not coming?”
“He’ll be here.” Terrible fidgeted. I knew he operated on impulsive opportunity. Plans changed at a moment’s notice. If Terrible scored another deal along the way and was too high to “work,” he’d cancel the buy.
And then Rancid pulled into the driveway. He slammed his truck door shut and ushered us inside his dilapidated house. Mangy hair framed Rancid’s wet eyes and he smelled like fertilizer. The airy rooms, stripped bare, had no furniture, no fixtures. Wires snaked from grooves in the ceiling.
“I just sold the place.” Rancid shrugged as if registering my suspicions. “I’m moving to Arizona.” Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. He was a drug dealer. They were all nomads. We followed him into the kitchen, where he produced a quarter pound of meth and a scale from a canvas bank bag. He flashed his cigarette lighter over the fine white powder. Then he asked us for a favor: “My old lady is getting death threats from her ex-boyfriend. Can you guys fuck him up?”
“You want us to kill him?” Terrible needed qualification.
Rancid bristled at the suggestion. “Scare him.” He weighed the meth.
And while the two plotted suitable payback, I handed Rancid a wad of cash, my adrenaline raging. Experience didn’t matter. I’d negotiated hundreds of drug deals, each one charged with a different energy. Paranoia caused people to snap. At any given moment the dealer could renege, get spooked, pull out a gun and pop off a bullet.
Terrible asked for his cut in dope.
“I can’t do that.” I shook my head and handed him $200 cash. Reluctantly, Terrible stuffed the bills into his jacket, then reached across the counter and pinched a gram of meth from the open baggie. Now I would have to explain to Koz why some of the evidence was missing.
It was time to take Terrible home before he craved more and dragged me from house to house as his chauffeur. While my mind raced with exit strategies, I turned the key in the ignition and listened as metal scraped against metal.
“Dead battery?” I couldn’t believe it. I had borrowed my girlfriend’s car. I had a quarter pound of meth in the front seat. Stuck was not an option.
I panicked. “Dude, we can’t stay here. The cops could roll up on us.”
“I’ll be back,” Terrible lied, and his teeth chattered as he stepped outside. Of course he wasn’t coming back. Like hell would he risk being caught in possession of meth. Rain fell, hypnotic and steady. Within seconds he was soaked. His clothes clung to him like a second skin. He sloshed to the house, and when the door opened, Terrible slipped into filtered light and disappeared. I needed a jump.
“Can you coast down the hill?” Kiles suggested over the line.
And I put the car in neutral and rolled to my rescue.
* * *
My 1992 government-issued black Harley, the same bike Koz had used three years earlier when he infiltrated the Warlocks in Northern Virginia, finally arrived minus a turn signal. I parked it in my living room and practiced riding it to the grocery store, the gym, winding through back alleys, my hands firmly gripped on the handlebars. I rode it in the rain, on slick streets, in the cold when temperatures bit my cheeks. I wanted to be prepared. Not possible.
* * *
About ten of us met at a local gas station near the freeway the morning of my first mandatory run to Tijuana, Mexico. The border town, situated just three hours south of San Bernardino County, boasted a dusty pub and endless strip clubs. As warm sun beat down on the rows of chrome and steel parked like cattle near the pumps, I worried about the ride, not the destination. We traveled like a black swarm, our bikes so close we grazed each other’s knees, clipped side mirrors, and inhaled exhaust. The experience, reminiscent of stock car racing, left me breathless and anxious as I split traffic and roared ninety-five miles an hour down the freeway. My hands shook so badly they tingled. When we finally arrived in the dusty Mexican town that smelled distinctly of goat, we recovered in a Tijuana pub, a dive on Avenida Revolución, sandwiched between tin sheds that brimmed with handcrafted artifacts, jewelry, fine leathers, and perfumes. Tourists found us amusing, a novelty they photographed and tucked inside their purses.
But the more they flashed their cameras at us, the more agitated Psycho became. Cords in his neck bunched. And by his fifth beer, I volunteered to retrieve the film.
“Sorry, ma’am, you can’t take our pictures.” I towered over a slim woman in a floppy flower hat and large white sunglasses. Her jaw slacked in surprise. Her silver bangles clinked as she erased each shot. Satisfied that the evidence had been deleted, Psycho spent the next eight hours exploring strip clubs. He dragged me along for good measure. I began to wonder what I was doing, as one club resembled the next, each pole dancer more vapid than the last. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, Sonny handed me my helmet.
“You all right?” He reminded me of a skinny Clint Eastwood, chiseled features, wrinkles cut deep around his eyes. He wore three Buck knives on his hip and drove a truck. But his real source of income was drug dealing. And he was a major target of the ATF’s investigation.
“You and me.” Sonny winked. “We’re always the last to leave. I’m always looking out for you.”
I liked Sonny. He seemed displaced somehow, caught up in a world he never meant to inhabit. But he discovered he had talent; he was well liked, respected. It was hard to leave that persona, to return to ordinary.
* * *
Barely one month into prospecting, Psycho announced he needed a bodyguard. His old lady had split on him, and he now had renewed interest in barhopping. Naturally I volunteered for the position, more than eager to leave behind Rhino’s meth house and increase my accessibility to the president. But my first night at Mickey McGees nearly proved to be my last in the investigation.
The place buzzed with patrons. Some Hells Angels supporters proudly wore their 81 T-shirts. Two in particular circled the pool table, immense, shaped like squares, stuffed into too-tight jeans and shirts that rode their bellies. One displayed a frosted beard that tickled his chest. The other wore a shiny skullcap. Psycho slammed back his third shot and grew increasingly agitated at their mere presence. He spit at the floor. Head Butt and Rhino watched, like predators crouched low in the grass, picking up the supporters’ foul scent.
Heavy metal crunched my nerves. The assault began with a glare, a steadfast look that penetrated Psycho like a bullet. He bolted from his stool and I mirrored his movement, my shoulders towering above his head. Then, without further provocation, Psycho lunged, his fist striking Bearded One’s chin dead center. The force slammed the man into the pool table, and I heard a resounding crack. Baldy sprung into action, but before he could strike Psycho, I blocked his blow and knocked him to his knees. I grabbed him from behind, feeling sick inside, not wanting to really hurt the man but needing to pretend. As an ATF informant, I wasn’t supposed to initiate fights, but as Psycho’s prospect, as his bodyguard, I had no choice.
I pummeled the Bearded One loosely, drawing just enough blood to look impressive. Meanwhile, Baldy recovered, his face a bloody mask. Head Butt and Rhino attacked him. Each punch hit like percussion. Screams, thuds, and shattering glass mixed with tinny metal. I dragged the Bearded One toward the exit, holding him from behind, hoping to punch him into the street before Psycho and the others finished him off with guns or knives. Adrenaline shot through me. I needed to get him out of there. The Bearded One, drenched in blood and sweat, wiggled in my grip. He scratched my arms, swung wildly at my head, his fists punching air. At the exit, I practically threw him into the empty street. He scrambled to his feet and bounded away like a wounded gorilla and I knew he wouldn’t return. Behind me, the bar looked lik
e a windstorm had tunneled through: chairs and bottles strewn across the floor, pool balls scattered. Glass shards glittered in Head Butt’s hair as he wrestled Baldy to the floor and Rhino stomped the man’s head, his kicks so fierce he left an angry gash above Baldy’s eye. As Baldy struggled to his feet, Rhino swung and knocked him unconscious. I could explain a fight; I couldn’t explain a kill.
Blood oozed from my knuckles. Sweat pooled from Rhino’s armpits and slicked his forehead. He panted. Still amped from the fight, he paced near the body ready for Baldy to suddenly awake and resume the struggle. But Baldy was down for the count, his face streaked with blood. Rhino squatted next to the man, checked for a pulse, and then, as if disgusted that Baldy still breathed, kicked him hard in the ribs.
I retreated to the toilets, my heart racing. So far no one had called the cops. The bar transformed into a bloody mess. I stood over the urinals feeling nauseous, shaking. Then the door opened and Psycho entered. He grinned at me, walked over to the urinal, unzipped his pants, and peed. I had a wire in my jockstrap; suddenly it felt too large.
Psycho boxed the air, turned to me, and said, “Nice work, Quick Draw.”
* * *
“I know who you really are.” Joanna’s voice quivered. My head throbbed from last night’s beating. I glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. The gold numbers flashed 6:00 A.M. I had been asleep for only four hours. My girlfriend’s back faced me. Sun lit up her hair. Black waves rolled across the computer screen. Slowly, I pulled the covers from my legs. This couldn’t be good.
“What do you mean?” My heart pounded in my chest, and it began to finally register that maybe it hadn’t been such a great idea to acquire a girlfriend after all.
“You’re a cop, aren’t you?” She swiveled around to face me. Her accusation hit me like a punch to the gut. But before I could manage an answer, she clicked the space bar. The letter I had drafted to my father-in-law a few weeks earlier flashed on the screen, a cruel reminder that deep cover had its casualties. I had hoped to reconcile with my estranged wife by confessing my latest role to her pastor father. Emotion had made me careless. I had left tracks. Shit.
“You talk about infiltrating a gang for the ATF.” Joanna’s brow arched.
“Come on, now.” I swallowed, hoping I sounded incredulous.
Joanna glared at me, arms folded across her chest. I had known her only two weeks. She was friendly with Psycho’s ex-girlfriend. I was in really deep trouble. A quiet waif with luminous eyes, she asked too many questions.
“I told you, I’m going to paralegal school.”
She cocked her head sideways.
“It was just an assignment.” Nerves shot through me. “The letter referenced a court case.”
The thick vein in her temple stopped beating. The lines around her eyes smoothed. But it wasn’t until she dressed that morning, slung her purse over her shoulder, and left the apartment that I exhaled. I clicked the dead bolt, leaned my head against the heavy door, and dreaded the fallout. I knew Joanna would gossip. And soon Psycho would ask questions.
Undercover operatives steered clear of the club’s so-called fringe benefits. They circulated stories among their biker peers about bedding multiple girlfriends in different counties, none of whom knew about the others. Why invite confrontation? they insisted. But morality had nothing to do with the agents’ fake discretion. Worried about future prosecutions and compromising the integrity of the investigation, they never wanted to be accused at trial of inappropriately touching a club president’s old lady or hitting on another member’s property.
But as an informant, I had fewer restrictions. Or so I thought. And although I knew there would be some risk involved in acquiring a girlfriend, Joanna surprised me. And now I had a problem: If I suddenly dumped her, she would get suspicious. If I kept her, she might keep digging. I decided to take a risk. I kept her.
4
The Confession
Psycho’s eleven-year-old girl snapped her fingers at me.
“Prospect.” She sucked a lollipop and pointed to a protruding nail in the deck I had just sealed. Sweat stained my armpits. My head throbbed. And as much as I wanted to ignore her, Psycho was her father and I had been a club prospect for only three months. As a mere probationary member, my job was to obey Psycho even if his commands filtered through his bratty kid. She blinked at me, flipped her dark braids behind her shoulders, and skimmed her bare heel over the rusty head.
“Careful,” she whispered. “Someone could get hurt.”
I grabbed a hammer and glanced across the yard. Psycho huddled on a cube of brown grass near his aboveground swimming pool and conducted club business. Joined by Powder, his vice president, Sonny, his sergeant at arms, and another full-patch, Spoon, Psycho planned to patch in Tony “the Barber” and Knuckles (so named when his knuckles were blown off his right hand after he grabbed the barrel of a gun pointed at his head), friends he had known for years but who had never prospected. Terrible stood guard a few feet away.
Psycho’s girl tapped her foot impatiently. Sun dipped over the horizon and cut a thin red line through the sky. Tony and Knuckles’ ceremony lasted a mere two minutes as Psycho handed them their colors and shook their hands. The president summoned Terrible into their circle, and the two spoke in hushed tones. Psycho’s expression turned dark as if a shade had been drawn over his face.
His little girl tugged on my vest. “What do you want?” I swatted her hand away.
Terrible marched to my rescue. “Quick Draw, let’s go for a ride.”
We climbed into my beater Ford Explorer parked on the street. Terrible slid into the passenger seat and lit a cigarette. His hands shook. He cracked open the window, flicked ash into the street. We rode in silence for several minutes and then Terrible wagged the butt of his cigarette at me. “I’m going to tell you some shit.” His pronouncement thundered in my chest like foreboding. Terrible averted his gaze, stared into the black street. “There was a murder last night…” His words resounded like gunshot inside the car. Confessing to a gangland-style shooting was every informant’s dream, and it was fast becoming my nightmare. Drug rip. I had no recorder. Terrible rattled off the coconspirators—Sonny, Rhino, Twist, the club’s enforcer and his rogues. Shit. Shit. Shit. I wanted him to slow down, to stop talking altogether until I could get him on tape.
“Sonny planned the whole thing.” Terrible threw the sergeant at arms under the bus. Sonny never showed up. But Rhino and Twist, keen on opportunities, stormed the supplier’s drug house and surprised the few dopers inside. Thoughts raced in my head as Terrible spilled more details: He had planned the robbery with Sonny, but he hadn’t participated, afraid he might be recognized by the intended target. Stop talking.
“No one was supposed to die,” Terrible added with a hint of regret. Shot in the back, the victim stumbled into the street, leaving a blood trail and silent witnesses. Worse, Rhino and Twist, in their haste to leave the scene, left deep tire marks.
“A fucking calling card.” Terrible flicked his cigarette out the window. Silence hung in the air between us and I forgot to breathe.
“We need to clean up his shit,” he said matter-of-factly, almost forgetting the reason he had asked me to drive him in the first place.
I drove to Twist’s house in Apple Valley, and a cold realization hit me: Twist could not be linked in any way to the Vagos. Murder attracted heat and unwanted attention. Psycho had ordered Terrible to remove any Vagos paraphernalia, including the murder weapon. I parked down the street and shut off the engine. Darkness cloaked us. Dutifully, I helped Terrible remove duffel bags from Twist’s empty house, stuffed with club colors, banners, flags, swastikas, and handmade wood carvings engraved with Vagos’ insignia.
And the first chance I got, I called Koz.
“Can you get it on tape?” he asked.
My heart hammered against my chest. Surrounded by dark shapes clad in denim and dirty patches of heat, I had never felt more alone. As an informant, I ha
d no backup, no surveillance team, no one to hear the bullet penetrate my skull if things soured. Without Twist’s confession, the government had nothing but a body in the street. Only I knew the players involved. But technically I didn’t exist. I was deep cover in the most violent biker gang in California. How was I going to entice a killer who barely knew me to confess?
I secured a recorder and spent the night awake.
* * *
Twist’s car lay in pieces in his driveway. The dashboard in the dirt, seat cushions piled one on top of the other, radio parts scattered in the rocks. He probably thinks his car is bugged, I thought. Shattered glass crunched under my feet. I peered through the screen door; a white haze filled the entrance. Lumps formed on the floor. Flies buzzed in my ear. I knocked, and instantly a hand shot through an opening in the wall above me and pointed a .22 at my head.
“Jesus, Twist,” I said, trying not to implode.
“What do you want?” he barked. I could hear water shut off. Twist had punched a hole in his bathroom wall so that he could watch the street as he showered. He poked a wet head through the makeshift opening and grinned. “Sorry, man.”
He nodded to the door. “Come on in.” In the thick drug fog, two women smoked meth on the couch. Barely dressed in panties and bras, they blew circles in my face and stared at me with dull cow’s eyes. I waded through trash, discarded pizza boxes, overturned ashtrays, drug paraphernalia, and rat droppings and grabbed an edge of cushion.
“Want some?” One giggled. I still craved the drug, though I had been clean for nearly two years. The smell lingered in the air, seductive as candy.
Vagos, Mongols, and Outlaws: My Infiltration of America's Deadliest Biker Gangs Page 4