by Alex Caine
It all made for an atmosphere where the possibility of violent outbursts lurked constantly, like rain clouds in the Pacific Northwest. And seduced as I was by many aspects of the Bandidos lifestyle, I wasn’t immune to the temptation to resolve things violently. On one cold, damp evening in late 1983 about ten members and several girls were at the Pioneer, just chilling out. When we had arrived, the place was empty except for two cowboy types drinking at the bar. Nobody I recognized. I was standing nearby with another member, joking and laughing with the barmaid. Vickie was in the corner with two other girls, playing a pinball machine. Gunk and several others were sitting across the aisle from us, close and within earshot. Everything was relaxed and peaceful. Until, that is, one of the cowboys started bugging the barmaid.
“Hey, where’s my change?” he asked accusingly. “I had two quarters sitting here and now they’re gone.”
“You pushed them to me, so I put them in the jar,” said the barmaid, taken aback.
The exchange was loud enough to catch everybody’s attention. I had money on the bar, so I pushed a couple of quarters toward the cowboy.
“Here,” I said to him. “Now get the fuck out of here.”
He didn’t. Instead, he turned toward me and leaned so that his face was just a foot or so from mine.
“Fuck you, asshole,” he said menacingly.
I couldn’t believe the guy. Everybody had heard him, so I was obligated to go on the attack. But that wasn’t part of my computation, at least not consciously. Rather, my reaction was purely visceral. I pulled my flashlight out of its holder in an instant, whipped it around and brought it down on the side of his head. Immediately, blood began gushing.
I backed up in a fighting position and said, “Come on, asshole, I’ll rip your fucking head off.”
He was already done for and his friend was smart enough not to be too loyal or tough. “Sorry, I’m really sorry,” the bleeding cowboy muttered as he staggered, trying to remain on his feet. Gunk, on the other side of the guy and apparently unaware I’d already clobbered him, didn’t want to let it end so quickly. He and two others grabbed the cowboy, but when he swung the guy around to nail him, he saw blood and left it at that.
By this time everyone had gone, automatically, into cover-up mode. One member had immediately secured the front door so no one new would come in. The girls started gathering our stuff from the tables. Within five minutes we were out of there. Some of the guys headed home, but a handful of us hit the I-5 and went down to Bellingham to another bar. We stayed there and talked over the incident like people doing a post-mortem on a championship football game.
The local police quickly learned that Bandidos were involved, but they didn’t know which ones. The feds weren’t so in the dark: the morning after the incident I told Andy all about it, and was required to make detailed notes on the entire evening.
We spun it in my notes and later in court as a last-ditch action to prevent more grievous injury to the cowboy from the other members. In other words, I had clubbed the cowboy to save him. An interesting concept and, of course, one that never crossed my mind at the time. He had insulted me and I had made him pay the price, as any Bandido would.
The wives and girlfriends of the gang members were all quite surprised when they heard it was me who had hit the cowboy. They had never seen or heard of me being like that. “Hey, he’s a Bandido and he’s a crazy Frenchman to boot,” Vinny told his wife. “That asshole’s lucky to be alive.”
Later that night at the bar, Dr. Jack and Jersey Jerry came in.
“I was impressed when I heard what you did,” Jack said. “Then I found out the guy was a retard.”
“I thought that would give me extra points,” I replied, laughing along with him.
Both Vickie and the barmaid would one day testify in court that the incident was unnecessary and instigated by me. They weren’t lying. It was just more evidence that I was becoming my character to a dangerous degree.
By 1984, I had long got the goods on all the Washington Bandidos. Two times over. So I began concentrating on expanding my contacts and dealings with the Bandidos community elsewhere. It meant I was on the road almost constantly: Texas, Louisiana, New Mexico, Colorado, even, for good measure, a few trips to the chapter in Rapid City, South Dakota. Sometimes I’d go by truck, more often by bike. Sometimes there would be a pack of us, sometimes just a couple, with or without our girlfriends. Always I’d be doing deals with as many different members as possible. With the investigation this widespread, when the law came down, it would come down hard.
On one of my trips to Texas I made a purchase I hadn’t planned on, one that didn’t do anything for the investigation but helped me make amends. Amends that had been due since Christmas morning, 1970.
It was early summer and I had traveled down to Lubbock with Dr. Jack, Terry Jones and Bobby Lund from Bremerton. One evening we were hanging around a house on Felony Flats when a teenaged girl came in. I recognized her as a Native girl Sly Willie had bought from her drunk or junkie mother when he had come up for the Bremerton party weekend more than a year earlier. He had brought her around to my house in Blaine before leaving Washington, and I’d reported it to Andy and the boys, hoping something could be done and fast.
“Just pull him over with a busted tail light or something. He’s going to have a gun—and a minor in the front seat!” I’d said.
They’d toyed with the idea but discarded it. Even if they made it look like a routine traffic violation, they thought it could jeopardize the whole investigation. At the very least, they argued, it would cost me the only good contact I had in Texas at the time and scuttle the purchase of the guns. After that call, I suppose, they just forgot about the girl. I did too.
Now, more than a year later, here she was in a long Chinese gown with a slit up the side and done up to look Asian. Still, the heavy makeup didn’t completely hide a black eye. It was clear she was on her way out for a long night of turning tricks.
I was shocked when I saw her, and perhaps it showed. Her blank look lifted for a second and there was a glint of recognition in her eyes. “I want to go home,” she said to me. Out loud, I think. As crazy as it sounds, I may have got the message just from the look she gave me. In any event, it struck me to the core.
I asked who owned her and she told me: a Texas Bandido named Wheeler had bought her from Sly Willie.
“Go get changed and be back here in half an hour. I’ll take you home,” I said, and she was off like a shot.
Wheeler was in the other room. I went in and called him outside. I was determined to keep my promise to her even if it meant blowing the whole case.
“I want that Indian girl,” I said.
He looked at me closely. I think he must have recognized my determination and understood that “no” was not an option. My eyes and tone indicated only one thing: matters could turn very ugly very quickly if he refused to sell her. He was clearly evaluating whether she was worth the trouble.
“Do you have any cash?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“A thousand dollars and cover the price of a generator I have to pick up tomorrow.”
“Done,” I answered.
Then he looked down at my feet. “I really like those chaps you have. Are they Brooks?”
I took them off and threw them on the ground. He almost said something further, then thought better of it.
I took out a wad of cash, peeled off a thousand dollars, threw in two hundred extra for the generator, and handed it to him. It was buy-money for drugs and guns that Andy had given me. I’d found a more important use for it.
On my way out, I told Dr. Jack something had come up and I had to leave for home. He looked at me curiously. “Fine, I’ll cover for you,” was all he said.
When I got to the bike, the girl was waiting for me, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, a small knapsack beside her. “Let’s go,” I said. She climbed on and we were gone.
I know I should have called Andy or
handled it some other way, but I was a man on a mission and nothing else mattered. I thought about that runner I’d picked off in the Vietnamese village so many lifetimes ago. Maybe, just maybe, I was beginning to make up for it.
As I went about my work collecting evidence and assuaging my conscience, the higher echelons of the outlaw biker world were maneuvering and negotiating in anticipation of a major shakeout. Not that this was obvious to the lower ranks, even those of us who were chapter officers. Secrets tend to be well guarded in biker gangs.
The first inkling I got that anything was afoot was at a special church meeting convened immediately after a trip I made to Texas. It was held at Vinny’s place—a sprawling one-story wood house on a large, very private spread outside of town. It was ideal for such meetings. When I arrived, there was already a crowd: the Bremerton chapter was there along with the ex-Resurrection prospect chapter and, lo and behold, the Yakima chapter of the Ghost Riders. About sixty guys in total, plus dozens of old ladies wearing their property patches, milling about outside.
Vinny emerged and called the meeting to order. All the Bandidos patches went inside, leaving everyone else outside, including all the prospects. Jersey Jerry took the floor.
“Everyone knows or has heard rumors of the coming sit-down between the HA”—the Hells Angels—“and the Outlaws. It will be happening at Sturgis at our campsite. We’ll be in a dangerous situation, truce or no truce. If the shit hits the fan, it could get really ugly. We will have to draw up plans to cover all possible situations. National will be letting us know.
“We in the Northwest have other problems to consider. We are the break in the Hells Angels’ chain. We must become immovable. A small chapter in Bellingham is not enough. There is talk at the national level of ordering the whole chapter to move to Bremerton or even another state—basically trading our territory to the HA so they have a clear run all the way to Alaska. Of course, I don’t like the idea, but national seems to think there might be something in it for the club as a whole.”
The news had the room buzzing immediately. It seemed the national leadership of the Bandidos had been negotiating with their counterparts in the Angels and Outlaws, discussing the division of the entire country between them. And it appeared the Bellingham chapter was in the balance, and about to become part of the horse-trading. On top of that, the Angels and the Outlaws looked to be about to settle their differences formally at Sturgis, with the Bandidos acting as mediators.
Several people stood and gave their opinion and a consensus quickly emerged: we weren’t going anywhere if we could help it. George had a plan. He suggested we patch-over the Ghost Riders’ best chapter and bring up the ex-Resurrection prospect chapter in Seattle to probationary status. There was a lively debate, especially from guys such as Bobby Lund and Milo from Bremerton. They were old-school and had less to lose; all they really had were their bikes and their way of life. Rules and traditions were important to them. They objected to the probationary status for the ex-Resurrection. I got the impression there may have been bad blood between them and the Resurrection boys.
After more than an hour of discussion we broke for beer. I could see on the faces of the people outside that they were dying to know how it was going. We said nothing; instead, after a quick drink we went back to talking.
Eventually, all of George Wegers’s suggestions were adopted, an indication of his growing power. The Ghost Riders could patch-over straight across, but would be denied their one-percenter patch for a year. The Seattle crew—the ex-Resurrection—got their probationary status with no state bottom rocker and certainly no one-percenter patch. Their bottom rocker would say “Probationary,” although a small Washington patch under their left pocket was allowed. Neither group would be allowed to give property patches to their wives or girlfriends for at least a year, although a property belt was permitted after six months if the old ladies from Bellingham and Bremerton voted her in. Nobody wanted an untested or troublemaking woman sporting a property patch.
Sturgis was still weeks away, and just as well—the big sit-down was a complicated thing to organize, not least because of the egos and suspicions of the heavyweights in the Hells Angels and Outlaws. The basic ground rules were simple: The Bandidos would serve as the hosts and mediators. The two antagonists were required to send their top people, people who could make decisions, not just second-stringers who would need to get agreements vetted and green-lighted by someone else. Each group would be allowed an escort of no more than fifty patches—no prospects, no women.
The Outlaws were sure that Hells Angels president Sonny Barger wouldn’t show up, and indeed the club’s point man, George Christie, had been negotiating with the Bandidos not to send Barger. Barger’s presence, he contended, would attract all kinds of heat on the summit and be counterproductive. The Angels offered instead to have Barger connected on an open phone line to make decisions. But Bandidos founder and former president Don Chambers, who had recently been paroled after doing ten years on a murder stint, wouldn’t have any of it. An open line would just be an invitation for the cops to listen in.
The Outlaws, who were sending their entire national chapter, interpreted Barger’s reluctance to attend the summit as proof that he was chicken—and happily went on about it to anyone who would listen. “He’s gone Hollywood,” they’d say, meaning he’d become soft and obsessed about his image. Among Bandidos, meanwhile, the word was that Barger was afraid of assassination, though we too thought he was more interested in his image than in club issues. Of course, all this talk made its way to California, putting the Hells Angels in an awkward position.
Then the Angels did a strange thing. The club had given up doing the Sturgis run years previously for reasons that were unclear. Then, in 1982, two years earlier, after the Outlaws had said the Angels didn’t do Sturgis because they were there, the Angels—including Barger—took up the challenge and attended. But the following year they’d been no-shows again. So in 1984, with the Outlaws again suggesting the Angels were afraid to attend, the Hells Angels took the bizarre step of producing a newsletter bringing the Sturgis run right to the forefront—and quoting the Outlaws’ challenge that the Angels wouldn’t show up.
The newsletter made no mention of the secret summit; still, the Bandidos and the Outlaws were pissed. No one understood what the Angels’ agenda was. The Bandidos thought it was Barger trying to create a situation that would blanket the run with law enforcement, thus making it safer for him or, alternately, giving him a reason not to show up. The Outlaws just saw it as proof that the Angels weren’t real one-percenters anymore: that newsletter might just as well have been a press release—next they’d be holding news conferences and hiring booking agents.
Whatever the reasoning was, it aggravated an atmosphere already replete with distrust and duplicity. But as early August approached, the bigwigs kept negotiating. Eventually, it was time to pack up the bikes and head to South Dakota. Still no one knew for sure whether Barger—or any Angels for that matter—would be showing up.
Sturgis always starts on a Monday, but one-percenter clubs rarely arrive early or even on time—they like to make a dramatic entrance. On this occasion, however, we weren’t too concerned about appearances. An advance party of Bandidos arrived on Sunday evening. We set up camp on Bandidos-owned property twenty minutes outside of town and the next day met up with some envoys from the Outlaws in Deadwood. The Outlaws were arriving en masse and would also be staying in the Bandidos campground. Whereas usually they came to party, with their women, booze and drugs, this year they were at Sturgis entirely on business. They wouldn’t be staying on after the meetings concluded. We gave the envoys directions to our spread and, after they left to rejoin the rest of their contingent, headed back to our campsite.
True to their word, when the Outlaws arrived, there were about seventy-five of them in total, the national leadership plus their fifty patched escorts. They set up close to a small man-made lake that formed the back boundary of the proper
ty. Between them and the road were all of us—400-odd Bandidos from around the country, many with wives and girlfriends. The Outlaws were well protected.
And with good reason, it seemed. The Hells Angels entirely ignored the fifty-escort limit. They began arriving that day at a separate campsite ten or fifteen miles from ours—and just kept on coming. Eventually some six hundred or so members and associates showed up.
Suspicions rose with each Hells Angels arrival. Did they see the summit as an opportunity to wipe out the competition in one fell swoop? The Angels’ show of force prompted the Bandidos brass to triple the number of guards posted around our site. It also brought us closer to the Outlaws. No one trusted the Angels, and here was proof that our skepticism about them was well founded. Neither of us was the top dog and both of us disliked that pooch intensely. So while we were on high alert that Monday afternoon and evening, we did find time to hang out and party with the Outlaws among us, guys who, more and more, were looking like our natural allies.
The meeting was set for twelve noon Tuesday. Sir Spanky, the Bandidos’ national sergeant-at-arms and head of security for the summit, had parked an Airstream trailer in the middle of our camp. He surrounded the trailer with two rows of Bandidos Nomads, arms crossed, facing outward, who would keep any unauthorized person from getting too close. No one in the camp had been allowed to drink or get high that day; everyone was stone cold sober.