Vagos, Mongols, and Outlaws: My Infiltration of America's Deadliest Biker Gangs

by Charles Falco

  Adrenaline pumped through me and fired my heart into overdrive. My recorder stuck to my skin like a brand. No way would Twist confess to anything with the women present. They were stoned out of their minds. My eyes watered and I struggled to breathe. I wanted to leave. Undercover work was largely improvisation. Federal agents received some “training” in psychological manipulation, when and how to use electronic equipment, what warning signs triggered danger, how to protect against the legal concept of entrapment, and when to ingest drugs to survive. But as an informant, I had no formal instruction. I relied on raw instinct. I had a simple plan—to visit Twist on my lunch hour, make sure his “stuff” had been removed, and hope Twist would offer up a morsel. I hadn’t counted on houseguests.

  “No, thanks, I’m working,” I managed. It was a good excuse. Serving as Psycho’s prospect had some benefits. The club president expected me to be sober for construction projects.

  Twist snapped a towel at me and gave me a big clumsy hug. He’d been up all night juicing and God knows what else. He talked like he was pumped full of thiopental sodium. I cringed as Twist nestled between the women and settled in for a long afternoon. With his .380 caliber pistol in his lap and his AK-47 assault rifle propped against the bedroom door, Twist smoked and bragged about the arsenal he had stashed in his closet. After two hours of inane banter, I stood to leave.

  Twist walked me to my car and I casually invited him out for a beer, though I knew he would never come. He lived as a recluse, content to get high alone in his dark cave, too paranoid and skittish to trust his own reaction with strangers. I had one last shot. “Everything cool or what?”

  His hooded eyes skimmed mine. In the stark sun his skin had a white glaze.

  “You know about that?” He shifted, his hands clenching and unclenching.

  “I hear parts of parts.” My heart pounded in my head. I was scared shitless. Twist was a psychopath.

  “What do you know?”

  “Some bad shit happened.” I hoped my voice didn’t vibrate.

  “But they have no fucking clue who did it.” Twist laughed. He folded his arms across his chest. A muscle in his jaw ticked. He studied me as if I were an insect he considered eating.

  “Did you guys leave any shit out there?” I gambled. Dust blew over my boots.

  “Nothing.” Twist looked past me into the street. “Nothing whatsoever. We wore gloves, long sleeves, shades. Brother, it wasn’t my first rodeo, you know what I mean?” He winked at me. Then, incredibly, he enacted the scene, formed his fingers into a gun, spun around, and said, “I operate like a machine when I’m doing business.” He held his fingers close to my temple and whispered in my ear, “Poof.”

  “Just one shot?” My throat scratched. I hoped to hell the recorder was picking up his hushed tones and that he admitted details only the cops knew.

  “Yeah.” He paused. “I shot him once. It went through his heart and hit his girlfriend in the arm.”

  “Nice.” I nodded, and in that moment I could have walked, delivered the recorded confession to the ATF, and declared the investigation over. Not only had I confirmed for the government that the Vagos trafficked in drugs and illegal weapons; I also had established they were involved in committing homicides, the violent trademark of motorcycle gangs. I swelled with a sense of duty, of serving society. My role was no longer about self-preservation, it was about justice.

  * * *

  In the days following the murder, Rhino disappeared, only to reemerge two weeks later with the desperate plea, “Hide me.” Panic laced his voice, and when I hesitated he elaborated. Initially, Rhino fled to his mother’s place, thinking it was a safe harbor, but when homicide detectives knocked on her door hoping to question him about Twist’s movements, Rhino sped for the nearest exit: me. To him, I probably looked safe—no surveillance, no dopers, no obvious tip-offs. At two o’clock in the morning, my girlfriend sat alert on the edge of my bed, picked at loose skin on her thumb, and watched Rhino pace, pull the shades down, and immerse us all in gloomy shadow. I hoped I hadn’t made a mistake keeping her around.

  Rhino studied me intently. Hours ticked by in the darkness. None of us spoke. Acutely aware that I had temporarily lost my connection to Koz and to the outside world, I needed a plan. My apartment wasn’t wired. The ATF thought I didn’t have enough night visitors to make the exercise worthwhile. Who knew I would harbor a coconspirator to murder? Occasionally, I flipped on my recorder, hoping Rhino might slip and leak a confession. But he never did. A gangster’s code dictated that important conversations happened in the street or en route inside a car where there was less chance to record. The decision to record involved considerable risk. Intuition guided me. If a situation didn’t feel right, I listened. But mostly I hid the device inside my jockstrap.

  “Would he come in?” Koz asked.

  “You mean give us Twist?”

  “If we offered him a deal?”

  No way. Too risky. Rhino might balk at the suggestion to betray his own. His refusal could compromise the entire investigation.

  “Let’s take a drive.” Rhino’s eyes narrowed to slits. It was early morning. “Take me to the 7-Eleven.” He had arranged to meet a girl there and shack up with her for a while. Outside, he hesitated on the curb, shoved his hands into his pockets, and glanced over his shoulder, down the empty alley. A pigeon skimmed the rooftop above us. Rhino slipped into the passenger side of my Ford Explorer. My mind raced as I hit the gas pedal and switched on the recorder.

  “Twist says he’s a professional,” I opened, hoping I could incite Rhino to talk.

  Rhino stared straight ahead and balled his hands into fists.

  “He panicked, dog.” Words tumbled out of him. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that. It was supposed to be a setup. But one of them decided to keep the money. You know how tweakers are, dude.”

  I nodded.

  “Fucking Twist didn’t want to leave.”

  Instead he left deep tire tracks at the crime scene.

  “I didn’t see no reason to cap that dude.” Rhino sniffed. “If Twist was acting like a machine, how come we didn’t get the money?” He looked at me finally, his expression stone. “It wasn’t focused shit. I was the only focused one. Fucking son of a bitch used my gun.”

  * * *

  “I could hide the gun for you.”

  Twist studied me with interest, shoved his hands in his pockets, and stared at the fat moon above us. We stood outside near the dark street. He shifted positions. A flicker of doubt skittered across his face and he shook his head. “No need.”

  My heart slammed into my chest. The recorder hummed in my crotch, no doubt picking up the crunch of gravel. Rhino had been the perfect decoy. While he prowled my apartment, fearful of police, Twist had carefully disposed of Rhino’s Jennings pearl-handled gun with the scratched-off serial number. Without physical evidence, prosecutors had nothing.

  But discretion wasn’t Twist’s strong suit. He bragged about the murder, reenacted his role, insisted he was a “machine,” and several months later homicide detectives arrested him. When they executed a search warrant of Twist’s home, they found one small revolver, several newspaper articles about the murder, and various Vagos indicia. Even caged, Twist could not be contained. He demanded a speedy trial, blabbed to his cell mate that his case should be fast-tracked—after all, he was a killer. And he insisted he acted alone. No one, other than me, knew of Rhino’s involvement.

  But homicide prosecutions could languish for years, and with a weak government case—no physical evidence and a jailhouse confession to an incarcerated inmate—Koz worried that a premature trial without the benefit of my recording could compromise ATF’s larger investigation and result in Twist’s acquittal. The ATF could not risk a government loss, much less my exposure.

  “Drop the case,” Koz said to the lead detective. “Let him go.”

  5

  Shadowboxing

  “We know you’re a cop.” Bubba, a skinny muscle wi
th a blond goatee, challenged me one night as I stood guard outside Church. He had never officially prospected for the Vagos. Psycho had known him for years and simply gave him his colors. Sleeved with tattoos, bald, and fiercely empty, his tone provoked something feral in me and I leaned close, tapped my finger to his chest, and promised one day to “stab him in the heart” if he ever insulted me again with his “cop nonsense.”

  Bubba sucked in his breath and I waited for the inevitable beating. A prospect never spoke like that to a full-patch. Other members milled nearby, watching the interplay with interest. Rain lingered in the air. Lightning lit up our faces. Bubba’s chiseled features twitched slightly as he processed my threat. Adrenaline shot through me. Heat flushed my face. I had learned to treat the Vagos like animals and never show fear. They would sense that in me like a vibration and pounce.

  Bubba’s dull eyes sparked suddenly and he bellowed a laugh, smacked me playfully on the shoulder, and walked into the street.

  Rhino, perhaps pretending to be sympathetic, bear-hugged me and grabbed my crotch. He had never before touched me below the belt. His gesture startled me, knocked the wind from my lungs. Only moments before, I had left my recorder in the car. I had worn it in my jockstrap every day except this one. A small warning echoed in the back of my head. Some might call it intuition, others damn luck. I liked to think of the voice as divine intervention. But it saved my life. Rhino’s hand held fast to my crotch and relief skittered across his face. In that single gesture he telegraphed his lingering doubt about me. I would have gone down in a blaze of bullets, dropped right there on the pavement with no chance to recover, no chance for a rescue. No one would ever know what happened. Rhino removed his hand. A wry smile lifted the corners of his mouth. I was safe for now.

  But maybe it was time to get rid of Joanna?

  * * *

  From a purely investigative standpoint, prospecting had some perks, including participation in the Vagos’ drug trade. As a probationary pledge, I was fungible. Not every OMG allowed its prospects to buy and sell drugs, but the Vagos had a looser code. Psycho ordered me to handle a “large-scale” drug buy from an associate with whom he had formerly done business, a guy named Casper who was a high-ranking member of the Nazi Low Riders, a racist criminal organization. He expected to receive thirty pounds of marijuana and entrusted me with $10,000 cash. Psycho had a prior commitment with the Canadian cartel. He needed me to “hold the drugs” for him until he returned. And, in case of a police bust, he preferred I take the rap.

  “Stay at my place,” Psycho added almost as an afterthought.

  It didn’t take much to convince Koz that the drug buy would not only boost my credibility with the Vagos but also afford me unfettered access to the president’s quarters. Psycho never supplied me with any particulars. I knew only that he regularly smuggled large quantities of marijuana from Canada to California and earned enough money from his various transactions to afford three tattoo shops, a luxurious RV, and a spacious property.

  Koz supplied me with a camera. Psycho’s house resembled an armory. And as I prepared to guard his residence, I snapped photos of weapons on his nightstand, a Ruger P89 9 mm semiautomatic pistol, a Taurus .380, a shotgun mounted on the wall next to several wrapped long guns in Psycho’s bedroom closet. On the floor, bales of marijuana lay wrapped in one-pound quantities. An SKS assault rifle leaned against the bathroom door.

  “I don’t trust anyone,” Psycho explained before he left, and warned me about rogues, real “outlaws” like Dollar, a former Vago who was too reckless with his drug consumption. He was a “control problem.”

  “You know what happens to people like him?” Psycho said, and I knew Dollar’s story was meant to warn me. He ordered me to “kidnap him” and drag him to Psycho’s Crossroads Tattoo shop for a lesson in “respect.” Over the next few days, until Psycho returned, I pretended to hunt for Dollar and Wicked and Little Man, hoping Psycho would soon lose interest.

  * * *

  I expected him to designate me as his drug courier and trust me enough to drive to Washington State, collect pounds of marijuana, and haul the dope back to California several times a month, but the logistics involved made the ATF’s head spin. Koz couldn’t guarantee he could get me permission to cross state lines.

  Instead, Psycho’s contact, Casper, sold me weed. More than any other drug dealer, Casper unnerved me. He had an army of loyal followers ready to do his bidding. At a menacing six foot three and 250 pounds, Casper wore his hair long, had a mustache and goatee, and approached drug dealing like a hunt.

  “I’m not comfortable with this,” I confided to Koz.

  “Why?”

  “He might rob and kill me,” I said.

  “If he opens fire, I’ll shoot him.”

  “You’d be too late. I’d be dead already.” I laughed.

  “Maybe I could hide in your closet?” Koz offered. Not a good idea. Drug dealers notoriously looked in closets. If Casper decided to peek, we’d both be dead.

  “How about I just watch the house, wait outside for you, and if anything happens…”

  But no scenario Koz suggested had any practical play. Backup crews were great in theory, but unless the drug dealer enjoyed slow torture, gunfire was too quick. In the end I met Casper inside, in a back room, hidden from the street. He brought along his brother, Fat Bastard, for good measure. Now I had two people to worry about. No one spoke. We didn’t have to. Fat Bastard spread on a puffy chair, his body lost in extra skin, looking like a forest troll who’d just swallowed the village children.

  Each time I returned to Psycho with the forty or fifty pounds of marijuana, he placed the drugs in the trunk of Bubba’s Ford Contour just in case he was raided by police.

  * * *

  Meanwhile Bubba continued to negotiate cocaine buys, and after several deals in the back of his tattoo shop he introduced me to the club’s meth source, a Vago who regularly offered up “samples” at Church meetings. The source gave me the name of his supplier, a multiple convicted felon named JB. And soon I identified the Vagos’ intricate web of dealers. On any given day, I huddled with Bubba in back rooms in his tattoo shop, exchanged cash, then waited for further instructions in parking lots. The meth source slipped me notes, cryptic codes: “11th & Main, Rite-Aid, JB,” along with a phone number. With my nerves shot, my head pounding, I dialed the number on the torn paper. A disembodied voice instructed me to travel south to a seedy residence on Muscatel in Hesperia. I pulled into a dark driveway and shut off the engine; my boots crunched across the gravel. Acutely aware of the eleven grams of cocaine stashed in my pocket that I had not yet had time to deliver to Koz, I knocked on the door. No lights inside. Ten o’clock at night. A dog barked. Wind tickled my cheeks.

  A child cracked open the door. The boy, barefoot, dressed in a stained T-shirt and underwear, motioned me inside. Shadows darted across the room. Mattresses strewn on the floor contained lumps curled on top. In the dark, I heard a female voice and the yelp of another child. JB emerged, grunted his greeting. He looked disheveled, rumpled like old clothes. He wore a .45 caliber pistol on his hip. Tattoos snaked his arms and neck, and around his wrist he wore the image of a barbed-wire bracelet. The child clung to JB’s leg; his hollow, haunted eyes watched as I handed JB the cash. He handed me two plastic baggies.

  As I maneuvered my car through the back streets, my hands shook. My head pounded. Exhausted, I still had to meet Koz and deliver the dope. Around one o’clock in the morning I dragged myself into bed. But just as I dozed off, my phone shrilled.

  “Psycho needs cigarettes,” Rhino barked. “There’s a shop he likes in Sacramento.”

  * * *

  The next afternoon, in blazing sun, I did push-ups in Lizard’s garage. My arms burned after the first dozen. Dust and sweat stung my eyes. Conversations buzzed around me, but I saw nothing but boots. They formed a semicircle, closed in on me, and mentally I cursed Psycho and his choice of entertainment. Four months of prospecting, of being Psych
o’s slave, had resulted in calculated abuse and midnight runs that made my legs and butt feel like rubber.

  As I lowered my arms for number twenty-two, Psycho tossed a piece of cloth at me.

  He laughed. “You have fifteen minutes to sew that on.” Just like that. I had my colors. No fanfare. No celebration. When I started the investigation, I hoped to advance in rank, to achieve full-patch status, but I always expected the promotion to follow a dangerous test, a rite of passage that involved some criminal exploit or degrading act. My heart racing, I stopped the push-ups, scrambled to get my Prospect Kit, and fumbled for the needle. Fifteen minutes to sew it on. The others watched intently as I threaded the needle. My fingers shook. I stabbed my thumb a couple of times. Drops of blood trickled down my hand. I slipped on my cuts and proudly displayed them to the others.

  “What do you think?” Cheers and whoops erupted from the group as they slapped me on the back, shook my hand, and enveloped me with bear hugs. A car door slammed. Sonny, late as usual, marched across the driveway, his face flushed red beneath his handlebar mustache.

  “It’s fucking crooked,” he barked and ripped the patch off my cuts.

  He slapped the cloth in my hand, a smile dulled in the back of his eye. “Do it again.”

  * * *

  Later that night, at Mickey McGees, the Vagos celebrated my promotion. The Irish bar dazzled with energy, and I felt like a celebrity surrounded by bodyguards and groupies. Patrons, caught up in the partying, congratulated me, slapped me on the back, firmly shook my hand, bought me beer. Scantily clad pass-arounds draped their arms around my shoulders, sat in my lap, attentive as windup dolls. Psycho kissed me on the cheek, hugged me, both of us drunk with accomplishment. I could now advance the investigation; he could grow his chapter. Win-win.

  We spilled into the parking lot, the crowd inside frenzied and hot. I downed my fourth beer, dizzy with relief. Psycho sat on the tailgate of his truck and shared stories of his initiation; I pretended to care, to listen as a brother, but in truth I didn’t care. I was tired, my head throbbed, and I craved an ending. It was Halloween night all over again. I had had enough candy. It was time to remove my mask, sweaty and stinking of rubber, crawl into my body, and sleep.