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

by Charles Falco

  My paranoia was similar to a panic attack. Shadows morphed into silhouettes of familiar people. I jumped at sounds: cars backfiring, thunder, sirens. I had nightmares. Throngs of Vagos stormed my apartment, their fists like rocks against my head. Always I called Koz, the dial tone so loud it hurt my ears. My fingers fumbled on the keypad, thick and clumsy. I could never reach him.

  11

  The Son of Anarchy

  I worried that my two months in the Murder Unit had stalled the Vagos investigation, but my performance in jail actually enhanced my reputation with the club, and at least so far, Bernard hadn’t leaked my identity to the gang. Vinny, the former vice president, disgusted by Psycho’s renouncement of his own gang, defected from Victorville and formed his own chapter called the High Desert. He recruited some of Psycho’s minions. As a result, Psycho needed new blood, new loyal leaders. Me. I saw opportunity, a way to access the internal workings of the club and prove it operated as a criminal enterprise. But Psycho didn’t like me much, not after I had emasculated him in the Murder Unit.

  I needed another conduit, someone Psycho respected, someone Psycho liked and who liked me: Lizard. The gangster lived in his memories. He wove dark, intricate webs few could unravel. Most in the club barely remembered Lizard’s accomplishments—whether he had any or members simply believed he had once been powerful hardly mattered. Members respected him. I used that. If Lizard liked me, others might like me, too. My bond with him developed slowly, born out of practicality and mutual interest in motorcycles. His wiry frame held him together like rebar. He needed help with repairs; I needed an insider. He preferred to work naked. I pretended his choices were normal. And for several weeks, we had superficial conversations about mechanical parts and drugs. I fake-laughed at his jokes, presented myself as amiable, flexible, and a kindred sociopath.

  And as long as we discussed his favorite subject—Lizard—he liked me.

  Then one afternoon, Psycho held Church in Lizard’s garage. Spoon and Wrench, both truck drivers, missed the meeting. Chains and Powder attended. Psycho looked particularly agitated. He paced between motorcycles like a small general acutely aware that he had lost most of his soldiers. Rain lingered in the air. Psycho skimmed a finger across a dusty motorcycle seat: His eyes, gold flecks in the dim light, glinted triumphantly as he announced his plan: “No one wears a High Desert rocker without my permission.” He ordered us to seize any violator’s colors. (Vinny, of course, promptly changed his chapter’s name to Death Valley). As loyal subjects, we supported Psycho’s “great strategy” to regain his leadership. We flattered him, said he was clever, powerful, blah blah blah.

  Rain fell, at first a drizzle, then large drops stained the concrete. Lizard stared at the water. He slowly undressed and stood in the shower. No one protested. No one said anything at all. The meeting continued without interruption.

  “Fucking Rust.” Psycho slid onto a motorcycle seat. He ranted about his pending assault charges, blamed Rust for starting the whole debacle. “I should kill him right now.” He paused for emphasis, then shrugged. “I’m already going away for ten years. Why not make it twenty?” Why not? He watched me carefully as if I had just spoken the words aloud. Nerves skittered across his face. Lizard nodded, clicked his teeth, rested his chin on his cane.

  But revenge against Rust would have to wait. Psycho had more pressing news. Members of the Mexican Mafia had contacted him as a “professional courtesy” to let him know that they planned to kill a Vago associate suspected of “snitching” on La eMe. The gang didn’t want “innocents” to get caught in the crossfire.

  “The rat lives in this area,” Psycho disclosed.

  My heart pounded. Bernard flashed in my mind’s eye.

  Powder suddenly puffed to life. “Do they know who it is?” His words floated over us like vapor. As vice president, he should have elevated his president, supplied his voice, dictated his decisions, but Powder was a title only.

  “My lawyer knows. He said it was one of the dudes whose charges got dismissed. We’ll find out when he testifies.” Psycho also had information from “a law enforcement source” that the Vagos had been infiltrated by an informant in the “high desert” area. He had a source on the inside, an “old lady,” who advised him that the DA’s office planned to refile the murder charges against Twist.

  “Your charges were dismissed.” Psycho looked directly at me, his tone sharp.

  “They dropped charges against three of us,” I reminded him. (The other two were Walter and Joe, hang-arounds.)

  I half expected him to order me to strip. Members fixed me with icy stares and I felt raw and exposed, like meat hanging from a butcher’s hook. But Psycho couldn’t risk more defectors. As captain of a mutinous crew, Psycho needed me. He dropped the challenge. His gaze traveled to Chains, the chapter’s secretary-treasurer. The biker resembled a rock star, long hair, goatee, well chiseled.

  “You’re a fucking mess,” Psycho scolded him. Thanks to his bookkeeping efforts, the club bled money. Bills went unpaid. Some members still owed chapter dues. Fiscal irresponsibility invited the scrutiny of the national secretary-treasurer.

  “I need a volunteer,” Psycho announced. “Someone who has actual accounting skills.”

  “I’m studying to be a paralegal.” I perpetuated my lie.

  Psycho chuckled. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “Maybe you could help Chains.”

  Technically, I wasn’t qualified. The rules required membership in the club for at least one year.

  “Fuck the rules,” Lizard slurred. He moved out of the rain, pounded his cane on the floor. His boxers drenched, he still commanded an audience. Psycho bristled at the outburst but considered Lizard’s deviation. He was desperate. He studied me warily, then smirked. “Just don’t go writing a book about us. You know, like fucking Billy Queen.”4

  I smothered a smile. Chains’s face muscles relaxed. He stood quietly next to me as Psycho briefed me on my new “secretary-treasurer” position. I was to attend all Church meetings, take notes, handle the club’s money issues, record dues, and, when the chapter acquired property—like guns or drugs—dispose of the evidence (after first notifying the ATF). The meeting notes had to be coded, Psycho advised, so as not to reveal the actual attendees.

  Financial records had to be doctored to “make it difficult” for law enforcement. The Vagos’ books provided proof that the club operated as a criminal enterprise. Each member paid club dues, belonged to a chapter, implemented a rank-and-file structure—president, vice president, secretary-treasurer, sergeant at arms. I reported to Tata, the international secretary-treasurer of the Vagos. (Though predominantly a Southwestern gang, the Vagos had chapters in Mexico, Canada, Nicaragua, and the Philippines.) Most of the Vagos’ funds derived from illegitimate sources—gun trafficking, weapons, extortion—though some came from bona fide businesses: tattoo shops, strip clubs, runs, and the club’s “legal defense fund.”

  Vagos chapters attended the monthly secretaries’ meeting, held at Bobby Bajas in Rancho Cucamonga, California. Over salsa and tacos, Tata warned us about the Solos Angeles. The newly formed chapter had been “green-lit.”

  Lights dimmed in the restaurant. I stopped taking notes. My recorder vibrated in my wallet. Tata dipped his taco into a blob of salsa and ordered everyone to purchase throwaway cell phones; the “Man” was watching the Vagos closely.

  “We have to be careful,” he said.

  If any sergeant at arms caught any member “moving dope,” he had permission to “run them down the road.” Tata warned us about getting “too drunk” in bars. Alcohol was contributing to too many assaults. We needed to watch our step.

  The Vagos nodded, absorbing Tata’s cautions. Each chapter should “keep a tool chest”—weapons—so “they have them when they need them” and get rid of old ladies who were becoming “pains.” No liabilities. No witnesses. He needed “clean chapters.” He ranted about the Patriot Act and reminded members that “biker gangs” were not excluded; “polic
e could enter anyone’s residence without a search warrant and plant what they wanted to plant as well as tap phone lines.”

  “We should wear recorders,” one member shouted. “The police do.”

  “That could pose problems for some brothers,” Tata warned. He paused, swished his food around on his plate, and reconsidered. “Anyone who wants to wear one must report it to National.”

  * * *

  While I absorbed my new position as secretary-treasurer under Psycho, I continued to work his rival chapter, Death Valley. I started by negotiating the purchase of an ounce of marijuana from a thick-necked member named Elmo. Wind bit into my face. The dark street glittered with broken glass. Elmo’s house dead-ended like a drain. He quickly ushered me inside and my eyes adjusted to harsh white glare. I squinted, blocked the light with my hand. A couch, two end tables, and patches of shaved mauve carpet looked like debris left over from storm damage.

  Elmo motioned toward the worn leather couch, where we both sat. My recorder pinched the inside of my thigh. Elmo’s face flushed as he overstuffed a joint and offered me the first hit. He tested me, unwilling to initiate a drug deal unless he knew I was a stoner. But as an informant, I didn’t have to pretend. I pinched the joint between my fingers and, without hesitation, inhaled deeply. The drug slammed into my lungs and left me instantly light-headed. I couldn’t stand, couldn’t form words. Elmo chuckled and balanced the joint between his lips. “That’s good shit, isn’t it?”

  “Good shit.” I coughed, hoping my head would feel less like a balloon soon.

  Elmo blew smoke circles in my face. “Check this out. Yesterday, I shot at someone.”

  It took a few minutes for his confession to process. Elmo’s voice, low and cold, replayed the scene: “Some dude” had beaten up his old lady in a bar, “gave her a black shiner.” But the assault was no ordinary brawl. Elmo’s old lady happened to be the international vice president’s daughter. He ordered Elmo to exact revenge, to “take care of business.”

  “What happened?” I managed, hoping my recorder picked up his hushed tones.

  Elmo stared at me and his eyes had a glassy sheen. Calmly, he explained how he had enlisted the help of a hang-around and together they had cruised in his ominous black Lexus through different neighborhoods until he spotted the attacker’s car and opened fire. Bullets ripped through the victim’s rear tires, but “unfortunately no one was killed.”

  Elmo shrugged, offered me another hit, and said, “Hey, at least no one saw me.”

  * * *

  Thanks to my recorded conversation with him, Elmo was eventually charged with assault with a deadly weapon and sentenced to four years in prison for his drive-by shooting. His hang-around testified against him. Years later, Elmo appeared on Gangland and proudly displayed a new tattoo he’d inked in prison. The image covered his whole left side like a flesh mural. He appeared bare chested for the cameras and flashed his hanging rat. He had tattooed on the animal’s belly FUCK THE ATF, and on the rat’s forehead, he inked my confidential informant number.

  I saw Elmo one more time on national television: He played an extra on the popular biker show Sons of Anarchy. I learned that many of the extras in that series were Vagos.

  12

  Hawaii

  Vagos who could afford the trip attended the annual Labor Day run held in Kona, Hawaii, a beach resort famous for sportfishing, sunsets, and coffee. Although the club had yet to establish a chapter on Kona, their goal was always expansion into burgeoning drug markets. Hawaii provided opportunity for members, many of whom were either former or active military, to reconnect with their roots.

  The Kona event attracted Vagos from California (South Bay and Hollywood chapters), Nevada, and Mexico as well as the many already established Hawaii chapters. Other local one-percenter groups like the Kinsmen, Devils Breed, and Satan’s Brigade mixed with Hells Angels from the Oakland chapter who hoped to recruit them. My faithful surveillance team, composed of Koz, Carr, and Kiles, boarded the plane with me, passing through the metal detectors one pace behind Rhino and Head Butt. They reserved me a rental car and a hotel room at the Hilton that overlooked the Pacific Ocean.

  Shortly after my arrival, Koz and Carr interrupted my view of the outrigger canoes navigating frothy waves with a knock at my door.

  “How do you like the accommodations?” Koz grinned, but I knew he hadn’t come for pleasantries.

  “Very nice,” I said, glancing beyond them into the vacant hallway. The last thing I needed was to be seen socializing with ATF agents. But both assured me there were no other Vagos staying at my hotel.

  Koz delivered his bomb: “But there is another informant.” We spoke on the balcony.

  “Here?”

  “He’s working for me,” Carr supplied. “Started about eight months before you did.”

  “How do you feel about meeting him?” Koz cut to the chase.

  “Give up my cover?”

  “Work as a team.”

  It was risky to disclose my identity to another confidential informant. I didn’t know him and I had no reason to trust him. What if he flipped on me and gave me up to the Vagos? Still, Koz had asked. I trusted Koz. He must have had his reasons, though he didn’t tell me the informant’s name or what area he worked.

  “Okay.” I blew out a sigh. Salt air whipped around us.

  “Just so you know, he’s against the idea,” Carr said.

  * * *

  While I waited for the agents to make the arrangements, Rhino burst into my room. “Mind if I crash here?” A gold glow lit up his face as he tossed his things on the bed. Head Butt and Rhino’s mother had become an “item” and commandeered the time-share his mother owned. He was “in the way.” I suspected he was used to that.

  As night fell, we headed to LuLu’s bar.

  The place had a strange familiarity: Garish wide mirrors lined the back wall, dim lighting framed ripped pool tables, music beat a heavy percussion. The bar could easily have been transplanted from Victorville. The Vagos preferred the illusion of travel without the experience, predictable violence against a backdrop of calm. Nothing but the scenery ever changed.

  And as the evening wore on, Rhino agitated over a cluster of Satan’s Brigade playing pool. One racked the balls so forcefully he pocketed the eight ball and sent another clunking over the rail. It rolled close to Rhino’s boot. In a flash, Rhino cocked back his fist and played the next shot. The member, knocked out, slumped to the floor. LuLu’s transformed into a blur of stop-action clips as fists landed against jaws, chins, and chests, and sounds muted to scrapes of stools across concrete, low moans, and reflexive grunts.

  To the Vagos, conditioned to attack, like windup soldiers in a makeshift war, destruction was an addiction: It was much more satisfying to damage human beings than to smash beer bottles or steal motorcycles. “Never let a patch holder hit the ground.” The phrase originated after Vagos crashed a Halloween party in a sleepy suburban town, ordered the homeowner to leave, and then stabbed him brutally when he refused. While the first act may have been gratuitous violence, it flexed muscle and triggered a brawl, a second act that suddenly had meaning. Now members fought to defend their fellow Vagos; guests fought to avenge the death of the homeowner. The natural order of things had been restored.

  By the time they stumbled out of LuLu’s, leaving the place gutted, the purpose of the Kona run surfaced. Act Two began. In hushed tones, Rocco, a massive Vago from the South Bay chapter, announced that the Kinsmen had been “green-lit,” though no one knew why. And no one asked. The Vagos had orders from the head of all five Hawaii chapters to take the Kinsmen’s colors the next day on a blustery main street crowded with tourists. The call to action promised bloodshed, anticipated arrests, incarceration, and a likely logistical nightmare for the ATF.

  Surrounded by water, escape would be difficult, if not impossible.

  * * *

  Back at the hotel, I slipped into the hallway to report the threat to Koz.

  “T
hat’s it, go call your handler,” Rhino slurred after me, and his tone, though joking, had an edge. But before I could rebut, he sprawled across my twin bed, fully clothed and with his head drooped over the side. In the morning he would have a raging headache.

  “A few of us have been ordered to enforce the green light on the Kinsmen,” I relayed to Koz in the parking lot later. We sat in my dark car, wary of eyes watching us. “We’re supposed to operate like a tactical team or special enforcement unit of the Vagos.” Rhino and I were the highest-ranking Vagos in the mix. We had to participate.

  “Be a witness,” Koz said.

  * * *

  I rode the elevator up to my room. It was late. I hoped Rhino had left me a bed. The doors buzzed open two flights below mine and in walked Green Nation, the man whose tattooed head had flashed so prominently on the court’s blank wall during my preliminary hearing. I had interacted with Green Nation at a Hemet Vago event. I had played him as a dope source. He looked at me, and his foot-long goatee thumped against his chest as he chuckled.

  “You.” He shook his head.

  Relief shuddered through me, so liberating to finally be myself, to finally remove my Halloween mask, to let go.

  We spoke in hushed tones in the elevator: Green Nation (aka George) enlightened me about the “Kinsmen problem,” reported that Woodstock, a member of the Puma Hi chapter, had engaged in a heated debate with a member of the Kinsmen just days before; afterward, that member surrendered his patch. Rumor swirled that Joker, president of the Vagos in Hawaii, had given the Hells Angels a “gift,” an “81” support patch cut from the cloth of the Kinsmen’s colors.