But before we could react, Johnny yelled, “Get the fuck out of here,” and Brian bolted, his face shredded like fruit pulp.
* * *
“He had a reprieve,” I said. That night I dreamed of exits. Flashing red signs with missing letters. Each door I opened led into wind, white space, mirrors. Panic shot through me. I couldn’t believe they’d lied. They had a code, rules of engagement. Betrayal did not compute.
Brian’s beating shook me up, rattled all of us. The forty-eight-year-old full-patch had nearly lost his life over club colors. He had followed the rules and trusted there would be no deviation from club policy. Johnny was the rogue, dangerous and unpredictable. Brian didn’t let it go. He insisted he deserved to be an Outlaw. He called the Copper Region boss, Les, to report his assailants. Furious that two members had violated his orders, Les stripped both of their patches and demoted them. Johnny and Rocket, now reduced to mere Outlaw probates, served at Brian’s whim. Harry “retired” for six months. When he finally returned, he probated for sixty days. As further punishment, Les ordered each of them to pay a $100 fine for their “insubordination” and endure a black eye.
That Brian returned to the Outlaws at all stunned me. He had a chance to reconsider, to resume life on the outside, but he traded the title Accountant for Outlaw, seduced by the promise of power.
Later, at Brian’s federal trial, the prosecutor would ask him why he didn’t leave when he had the chance.
“I was scared. What was I going to do on the outside? Who was I going to be?”
* * *
Maybe that was the problem—a person like Brian needed to be reprogrammed, retrained to live outside much the way I had learned to live inside. But more than my costume, my survival depended on camouflage and mimicry. In order to blend with the animals, I had to perform like one, absorb their vicious racial slurs, condone their denigration of women, pretend to be just like them.
It wasn’t a role I could afford to screw up.
What really aroused the Outlaws was denigrating whole categories of people. And as much as I hated the idea, I developed a way in, a midget routine that appealed to their base sensibilities. The Outlaws already regarded little people as “pets.” One recited the story of Puppet, who hobbled with a cane, drank his own urine as part of a stage act, and once, during a wrestling match, stapled his opponent’s head “for fun.”
“We should put them on an island,” the Outlaw quipped, “and issue everyone hunting licenses.” He roared with laughter, swiveled on his barstool, and sloshed his beer onto his pants.
Through my disdain I forced the comedy, broke terrible, tense moments with my twenty-minute “midget routine,” always acutely aware we might all die laughing. My jokes did backfire, and to my horror, the Outlaws morphed my already tasteless rant into something even more perverse, sex with Bridgett the Midget, an infamous porn star who stood only three feet tall.
“We should get her for you.” M & M, the chapter’s enforcer, winked at me and I filled with dread.
I could handle drugs, sleep deprivation, even physical brutality, but I couldn’t handle Bridgett.
“They bought her for an evening,” one confided to me later. “We made a prospect hump her in the parking lot, over and over, like a fucking chain.”
* * *
I stressed about Bridgett, worried the Outlaws might surprise me and prop her in a doorframe, behind the bar, in a shadowy back bedroom. The specter of her little body terrified me. I knew they would do it. They would think it funny to watch a giant maneuver a tiny woman. They might turn the whole thing into sport, make others watch. The idea repulsed me.
“I can’t do it,” I warned the others.
“Tell her you’re married.” JD laughed. “Lie. Say you did it, then pay her off.” But I wasn’t amused; dignity mattered, even for Bridgett.
She so distracted me that my guard slipped. As Bobby wiped beer steins and restocked the ice behind me, Les’s question flew at me like a random dart.
“How did you two meet again?” He wiped foam from his lips with the back of his hand. Bobby and I had reviewed our history a thousand times before, but now I stumbled over the lines.
“He was my boss at a tree-trimming business.” The words dried in the back of my mouth.
“No shit, that’s what I do,” a young prospect piped up. Thin and pale, with a sprinkling of pimples across his cheeks, his revelation jarred me. What were the odds that someone actually worked as a tree trimmer? Sweat slicked my hands. Maybe he would disappear.
“What’s your biggest bar?” He pressed. What the fuck was a bar? Gringo appeared like punctuation and shoved chunks of ice into the refrigerator. He heard the banter and sensed my growing tension as I fudged an answer, “My biggest bar…” I stared at the ceiling as if the chipped paint held the answer.
“Forty-eight inches, right?” Gringo interjected as he dropped a bag of ice on the floor. I swallowed, grateful for his rescue.
“Yeah, that’s it.” My heart slammed into my chest. The prospect frowned, shrugged, apparently satisfied with my answer.
Later, I called a tree service company and learned that “bar” was actually slang for “chain saw.”
That night I crawled into the van, but sleep eluded me. Bridgett floated into my conscience.
24
A Patchwork Black
It is as inhuman to be totally good as it is to be totally evil.
—ANTHONY BURGESS, A CLOCKWORK ORANGE
The Fourth of July marked the club’s largest mandatory annual run, attracting Outlaws from all over the world. Milwaukee Jack, the Outlaws’ national boss, summoned leaders from other regions, and prepartying began days before. Gringo and I wound our way to North Carolina on July 1, speeding in formation, splitting the double-line highway divider and traveling so close to traffic we could have spit into car windows. Hot sun dehydrated us. We stashed provisions this time: sunscreen and bottled water. Claw and the other agents stayed behind to entertain Outlaws traveling from distant regions who needed temporary quarters.
Upon arrival, Gringo and I assumed our usual posts: guard duty and bartending. As the only two prospects serving fifty or so Outlaws, we were run ragged. Twenty-hour shifts morphed into thirty without rest. Sleep, when we were lucky enough to grab it, occurred in the van, in blazing heat and sticky humidity. Anxiety ripped through me as I hustled drinks and ice. I didn’t want a black eye. After a while, I couldn’t feel my legs; they tingled with fatigue. By day two I worked on automatic pilot, jerking toward commands and sounds, moving, always moving, until suddenly my momentum shattered.
“I need to talk to you.” An Outlaw ushered Gringo aside. Tall as he was wide, sweat stained his armpits and slicked his forehead. His tangled braid swung like a whip behind his back. A smile died in the center of his eyes. A chill came over me as Gringo disappeared with him. He and I had always discussed escape plans, what to do if suddenly cornered. We rehearsed it like a fire drill. But my mind blanked. I forgot the distress signals, couldn’t remember the requisite time to wait. I poured beer, wiped the counter, dropped blocks of ice on the floor, and felt the dizzy pull of panic.
Crazy thoughts filled my head: Someone had recognized Gringo. He had successfully infiltrated the Warlocks in Northern Virginia. Snuff’s chapter was in Northern Virginia. Maybe a Pagan had spotted him, ratted him out. We were being set up, ambushed. That’s why Les and M & M had ordered us to arrive early. For the first time in the investigation, I felt real fear.
Surrounded by assault rifles, machine guns, machetes, and wasted Outlaws, I had no defense, no way to alert the cover team. I made excuses, said I had to use the restroom, and spent precious minutes straining through the dark clubhouse in search of Gringo. Where the fuck had he gone? Our escape plan seemed ridiculous now. We had talked about bolting for the train tracks that bordered the forest outside the clubhouse; when we were clear, one of us would call the cover team.
I didn’t know when to leave. We hadn’t discuss
ed time. I returned to the bar, hoping my face masked my panic. My hands shook as I poured more alcohol. Two hours ticked by. I heard no sounds of torture, no gurgling, no screams. I saw no Outlaws emerge with bloodstains. Another hour passed. The train tracks loomed in my thoughts.
We were all in this together. We all had to emerge triumphant as a team. This operation was no solo act. Where the fuck had Gringo gone? As Outlaws blurred around me, anger coursed through me. Even in war there were rules of engagement and there were crimes. We had a pact, an unspoken bond, the agents and me. We defended each other, we sacrificed. But not like this. I had imagined a shoot-out, a chance, not this quiet cowardice, picking us off one by one. By the third hour, I really panicked, worried that if I acted too soon I might jeopardize the investigation, and if I didn’t act at all Gringo might pay with his life.
“I need to pee,” I mumbled and bunched the wet rag in my hand. I slipped into the hallway, listened to voices for high-pitched inflections or anything that signaled distress. The clubhouse, surrounded by fields and forest, also bordered a nearby abandoned warehouse. I hadn’t thought to check there. Fans blew in most of the rooms, but the hallways lengthened like hot tunnels. I decided if I didn’t find Gringo this time, I would approach Les and make up a story: Gringo’s old lady had a car accident and the hospital called. Just as I rehearsed the lines in my head, I caught a glimpse of Gringo through an open window in the warehouse. He was working the bar. My body relaxed. He looked tired and sweaty but very much alive.
In my nightmare, I heard bullets, deliberate shots to the back of Gringo’s head. His words floated above me: They asked me to work the bar, man. A train rushed by, its low whistle like a warning. I startled awake, drenched in sweat. Gringo stirred beside me. We had slept maybe two hours. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. Pressure pushed against my chest. With the Vagos, I worried about my own safety. Now, as a team member, I felt responsible for the cast. We all did. Today was too close.
“Do you think Snuff knows?” Gringo curled on his side. The glare of parking lot lights flooded our van.
“If he does, he would have already shot you.” My back faced him.
“He asks a lot of questions.”
“He messes with everyone.” I sat up. Tired as I felt, sleep eluded me.
“What if he knows?”
We debated Snuff for another hour, and finally I said, “What can we do about it?” Shut down the investigation? All of this was dangerous, life-threatening gamesmanship. Paranoia was part of the play. All Outlaws sniffed out rats. At least once a week, wherever we went someone challenged our credentials.
* * *
Relief arrived the next day as Bobby, JD, and Claw joined us. Hundreds of Outlaws streamed through the clubhouse ready to party. I worried about Claw. With his weak arm he wouldn’t last two minutes behind the bar. I envisioned him with bruised eyes and an injured shoulder. Gringo assigned him to food service.
“With the women?” His jaw dropped but relief skittered across his face. He knew better than to protest.
“With Coach,” I qualified. “You’ll be safe with him.” The Outlaw was a chef and one of the few “happy” bikers.
Claw nodded and ducked out to mold sandwiches in the cafeteria.
* * *
I dragged to my post outside feeling dehydrated and sick. Gringo, too, looked ill. We had worked nearly forty-eight hours without reprieve, and the two hours we stretched in the van hardly qualified as rest. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it. The others had rented a hotel for the weekend. I was ready to trade with them. Pain shot through my legs as I forced them to stand. Just when I thought I would collapse, Milwaukee Jack changed up our routine. With his hands on his hips, his gray beard fluttering in the breeze, he barked at several of us prospects to spray-paint a large white circle in the grassy field behind the clubhouse. The fumes made me nauseous. This couldn’t be good. Crouched on all fours, sun on my neck, my cuts soaked with sweat, I knew painting would be the easy part. Les bobbed next to Milwaukee Jack, a sardonic smile on his face. When we finished, he announced we would be the entertainment. We had to submit to “gladiator matches.”
Jack ordered all of us prospects and probates to put our names in a plastic container. He asked for volunteers. No one raised his hand. Jack reached into the bucket and paired us off with probates. Mine, ten years my junior, matched my size, but his veins bulged beneath his T-shirt. Humidity drenched us before we even began, and I dreaded the thought of his sweaty body tangled up in mine. There were no rules, not really. The objective was to win, toss the other person out of the white painted circle. Still, Les’s voice droned on: two men per fight, one fight at a time, and fights last as long as they have to.
A hush fell over the large crowd. On Les’s signal we dropped to the grass, each of us scrambling to pin the other first. Our legs and arms roped together. Adrenaline shot through me. The stench of sweat and body odor gagged me. I hadn’t showered for days. I pushed the probate’s shoulder blades into the ground. He winced in pain. But I didn’t let up. Instinct took over. And suddenly it wasn’t about winning or losing, it was about feeling. The crowd faded into the backdrop. It was just me and the probate, and as I threw him out of the circle and heard the crowd erupt, sharp pain shot through my left foot. It throbbed and swelled, suddenly heavy as a brick. I hobbled to the side, wriggled out of my boot. My foot had turned a sickly gray like spoiled meat.
* * *
By the next morning, my foot had lost all feeling. I improvised, popped Tylenol, soaked the foot in a hotel tub, and dragged it along for errands.
“Now you know what I deal with.” Claw flapped his deformed arm at me.
* * *
Meanwhile, Gringo continued to worry. He thought he recognized faces among the guests; a woman who served him a ham sandwich looked familiar. He knew her from his Warlocks investigation. He was concerned she had seen his photo displayed on the Warlocks’ Web site. But her dull gaze held no hint of recognition. Still, doubt lingered. At any moment the parts might click. She could snap her fingers, cry foul, and sick an army of angry Outlaws on him. And as cameras flashed, Gringo instinctively ducked behind another server, a move that aroused suspicion.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Snuff barked instantly at him.
“Nothing, I’m … I just don’t like being photographed.”
Snuff’s face contorted. He pulled his invisible sword from his sheath and prepared to lunge. “Why? Are you a fucking cop?”
Gringo pretended to be insulted. He bristled. His face reddened. “What the fuck?”
Tension rippled between them. I forgot to breathe. Then the lines in Snuff’s face smoothed. He relaxed, laughed. “Shit,” he said. “Of course you’re not a fucking cop. That would be suicide.”
* * *
Snuff continued to test Gringo. He solicited him for drug buys, smacking him hard on the shins with his cane as if he were a goat, ordering him to purchase cocaine from his associates. Hand-to-hand buys could often be the riskiest. I envisioned Gringo exchanging cash with shadows, brokering deals in hushed tones, outnumbered in hollow corners, unsure of quality, quantity, or even safety. When I could, I initiated the buys with the agents, inserted myself as a foil just in case we got ripped or played. Under duress, when Gringo bought drugs for Snuff, there were no human barriers. Hours later, Gringo returned with the cocaine. He looked sweaty and pale. I never asked for details. Snuff nodded appreciatively, took the stash from Gringo, and consumed most of the coke on his own. Then he hobbled into the crowd and offered “hors d’oeuvres” to the guests, small samples of cocaine. Meanwhile, another Outlaw approached Gringo with party favors, shoveled him handfuls of oxycodone pills and several “muscle relaxers” for “the stress.”
Later, Gringo would tell jurors he “lived in sort of a nightmare.”
* * *
Despite my grossly oversized foot, I still hustled drinks for the Outlaws for damn near five hours before the national boss, Milwaukee Jack, s
waggered into the humid space looking like a lumberjack and announced an impromptu meeting with patch-holders only. The air sizzled with tension as the crowd thinned. The remaining members exceeded three hundred. My foot throbbed. Jack ushered the agents and me in front of a small platform stage in the center of the clubhouse; I felt like a prized pig. Stress coursed through me. We were hopelessly outnumbered. If this was some kind of target practice … Fierce faces stared at us, drunk, high on cocaine, their throats scarred with tattoos. Some wore SS lightning bolts on their cuts, boldly telegraphing recent kills.
As my heart raced and my breathing labored, I thought about death and whether it would hurt. It wasn’t true what people said about life being reduced to short fast clips. My past didn’t replay for me, only my future. My wife. My son. My absence in their lives. Cold dawning hit me. I had risked everything. I glanced at Bobby, Gringo, JD—they, too, had sacrificed. If it ended now in a volley of bullets, no one would know they died heroes.
Jack broke the tension. “You fucked up,” he boomed. “We’re going to take your colors.” The room inhaled. My heart thumped. When had we fucked up? Maybe Gringo had been right after all? Maybe Snuff did know about us. Then, as if an invisible flag waved, Outlaws suddenly stormed us. Random fists clawed at my vest. Sour breath brushed against my neck. I struggled, blocked Outlaws with my body, and grabbed my cuts. Fight. Fight. Fight for the colors. Instinct took over as members punched, pummeled my chest, stomped my bruised foot. Cheers, claps, congratulations resounded around me. Drenched in sweat, sore, and completely stressed out, we watched North Carolina’s boss, Les, grinn and hand us our coveted diamond one-percenter patches. It took me a moment to focus, to adjust to the news that we had made it, we were Outlaws.
Vagos, Mongols, and Outlaws: My Infiltration of America's Deadliest Biker Gangs Page 18