by Alex Caine
“Who wants to fucking know, jerk-off?” Chris shouted right back.
Immediately they were nose to nose, and it looked like it would get physical very quickly. Henry, however, pre-empted that by pulling out his Glock and sticking it in Chris’s face. Chris simply responded likewise, pulling out his Glock and pointing it at Henry’s abundant gut.
That was my cue. “Not in my goddamn shop,” I yelled, getting in between them as best I could. “You guys want to fucking kill each other, go out into the alley. But don’t disrespect me by wasting each other here.”
It took another minute or two—a very long minute or two—but Chris and Henry eventually backed off, snarling all the way.
“Give him a few minutes,” I said to Henry as I pushed him gently out of the shop. “He’s here talking business. We’ll be done soon and he’ll leave.”
I never spoke with Chris about the altercation, but there was no doubt he took note of the fact that I had some other brave and/or reckless acquaintances, likely criminal. Similarly, Henry was impressed by the fact that I had HA connections. Next time he came into the shop, he was eager to talk about Chris and what had happened, but I shut him down.
“Forget it,” I said. “It’s over. I don’t want to talk about it.”
By the time of the ATF meeting, Henry and I had agreed to do business, even if we hadn’t got too precise about it. In his eyes, I was like him and his associates—into whatever might make a buck. He had, however, given me a price on one specific business opportunity: ecstasy, one dollar a hit, minimum purchase 200,000 hits.
Still, even the episode with Chris didn’t stop Henry from being skeptical of Joe when I introduced them at my shop about a week later. I had described Joe as one of my money men—a financial backer for my criminal ventures—and told Henry that Joe wanted to meet the supplier he was going to be dealing with. Joe played the part of the wheeler-dealer well, but Henry wasn’t convinced.
“I don’t feel all good about him,” said Henry, who, like almost all criminals, operated on instinct. “I don’t want to insult you—he’s your friend. But he’s always in a hurry. That makes me feel strange.”
Henry had a point. Joe wasn’t around much and whenever he was, he was always rushing away. I’d see him every week or two, give him my notes, and then he would disappear to wherever he disappeared to. Joe’s absences, and Henry’s wariness toward him, meant progress was slow.
But there were other reasons the operation took a while to get going. International cooperation is hard to come by in most fields, and law enforcement is no exception. If anything it’s worse, thanks to the jealous manner in which most forces guard their turf. Furthermore, I was frequently absent too, since I was regularly going back to Ontario to testify in the PDR and Niagara mob cases, then often taking a few extra days to visit the family in Saint John.
Despite all of these factors, things did advance and we eventually firmed up an order for 200,000 hits of E and a pound of heroin. I’d also indicated an interest in whatever else—guns and art in particular—his contacts might provide. I was hoping Henry would nibble and in some way acknowledge the art theft. I wasn’t disappointed. He didn’t say anything, but he returned from a trip to the Czech Republic sometime in early 2001 with a present.
I picked him up from LAX, and when we got back to my Turquoise Street shop he said, “I have a gift for you.” Then he opened his suitcase. But rather than rummaging around in its contents, he gently tore the lining away. There was the painting—a smallish portrait of a wrinkled old man smoking a pipe—as well as a sample of the drugs we were going to buy: a few grams of heroin and twenty or so hits of ecstasy, with several different logos stamped on the pills.
In my campaign to penetrate all fingers of “the hand”—the Russian organized crime network Henry was involved with—I had also told Henry that I could be more than a customer, I could be a source of supply too. In particular, of stolen luxury cars. Henry introduced me to the owner of the car lot on the ocean side of my store. Like Henry, he was a Czech, with a Russian partner, and the pair were friendly enough, but discouraging when it came to me getting involved in their business. Besides, thanks to the Latino gangs in the area, he had all the cars he needed to smuggle overseas.
The one business the hand was involved in that didn’t interest me at all was girls. Not because I didn’t have the opportunity and not because it wasn’t serious; on the contrary. Rather, it was a slave trade, the girls working sometimes as strippers but usually in “massage parlors” and other fronts for prostitution, and it would have been impossible to get involved without taking part in the crime. The women were kept under strict surveillance at all times and were regularly moved from city to city, never staying more than a few months in one place, so as to keep them from developing contacts and perhaps making friends who would help them flee.
At last, in the summer of 2001, almost a year after I began working with Joe, it was time for us to make a trip to Europe to meet with Henry’s contacts. I knew one of them already from phone conversations when he’d called my shop looking for Henry. His name was Mirek and he was the brother-in-law of Henry’s wife, Gabrielle. Mirek was Henry’s protector and patron, and eager to help him get some business going. It’s hard to know who’s who among Russian mobsters; contrary to American crooks, they always downplay their seniority. Mirek, however, clearly had influence—that much was obvious from his relationship with Henry. Not as much, however, as one of the other men Joe and I were on our way to meet with. Jivco was a former major in the KGB—and there was no doubt he was a heavyweight due to his political and military connections.
After flying into Amsterdam and then driving to Nancy in France, we finally met Mirek and Jivco in Ditzingen, a small town near Stuttgart. Two others accompanied them: a chemist who was introduced only as the Doc and a hit man called Bouy. We weren’t there to negotiate a buy, deliver cash or discuss the logistics of a delivery, just to meet face to face. The Russians had wanted to get a personal feeling for us, and Joe and I had told them we felt likewise. Coming this far to meet also gave them proof of our seriousness. If we were willing to fly from California to Europe just to sit down in a café for a couple of hours, then we certainly didn’t lack for cash or determination to do business. Still, I found it strange that Joe and whoever was telling him what to do didn’t have more of a plan.
Back in San Diego the following week, it was full speed ahead for the heroin and ecstasy deal, at least from Mirek and Jivco. They were phoning at least once a day and had Henry coming by regularly to ask how we were progressing.
Every time I phoned Joe, however, he stalled me. “I’m still working on the international connections,” he’d say. Or, “I’m trying to get things organized.” Or, “You can’t do this kind of thing overnight.” He’d gone from being a cop who could move mountains to an ineffective bureaucrat.
Finally, perhaps a week after returning, I called up Bob, whom I’d stayed in contact with despite Joe’s orders, and vented. “This is bullshit. I’m getting it from all sides to do a deal but can’t get any commitment from the cops. I’m just fending people off and twiddling my fingers. And then I have orders not to do any work on the Angels. I might as well be at home.”
Later that day or first thing the next morning, Joe called. “I agree with your plan,” he said.
“My plan?” I asked. “What plan?”
“To go home and lay low.”
“Okayyyyy,” I answered.
I couldn’t figure out what was going on. Were they firing me? At that point I didn’t care. I could handle not knowing what exactly the criminals were up to. But the cops? Whom I’m supposed to be working for? That was too much. Two days later, I was on my way back to Canada.
Somewhere en route a light went on. I realized that I was being cut out of the deal. Joe was simply acting like a real crook. I also began suspecting that maybe the cops had turned Henry. He was the ideal candidate, vulnerable in all sorts of ways: his daughter’s
crippling illness and the medical bills that came with it; the fact that Gabrielle, his wife, had no papers. And of course, he was a junkie, reformed or not.
I didn’t give a damn about being cut out, but I did care that they didn’t tell me. They were playing me like a chump. Or, worse, acting as if I were a crook who couldn’t be trusted, rather than a colleague. Coming off the PDR case, where we’d been a real team, made this treatment all the worse.
Back in Saint John, I called up J.P. and told him that I was home, perhaps for good, and didn’t know what the hell had happened to the San Diego Russian investigation. And, I added, if the Mounties wanted to make their own bust on the back of the work I’d done with Henry, well, I’d help them.
I’d already got an inkling the RCMP were open to such a deal. Months earlier, in California, they’d arranged for two new passports for me—one of which they’d kindly hidden, along with five thousand dollars cash, in a safety deposit box in Amsterdam in case I got in trouble. During the dealings involved in obtaining the passports, Joe had told his Canadian security contacts the basics of the case. The RCMP in turn told me that Canada, in particular Toronto, had its own problem with Russian mobsters; anything I could do to help them on that front would be appreciated.
So, a year or so later, here I was ready and willing—and willing, I suppose, to go behind Joe’s back just as he’d gone behind mine.
The Mounties didn’t hesitate. They asked me if I would set up a deal with Jivco that would have drugs delivered to the Toronto area. That would allow them to find out who his Canadian contacts were and bust them. I said sure. A day or two later, I was on the phone to Jivco.
“I’m going to be in Amsterdam later this week and I’m ready to do business,” I said. “Can you get someone there?”
“I’ll go myself. Call me when you’re there.”
A day or two later I flew to Amsterdam, where I was picked up by two Dutch cops. They took me to the Renaissance, the same hotel I’d stayed at with Joe a few weeks earlier. I checked in and met a man named Loderus, another Dutch investigator, as well as an official tied to the Canadian embassy—basically a spy. I was also introduced to a younger Dutch undercover cop who was supposed to play my man in Europe. I’d introduce him to Jivco and his people and then back off, leaving the details to be sorted through by my young Dutch sidekick.
I phoned Jivco’s land line phone, which was a Hungarian number. He wasn’t there, but the guy who answered was expecting my call. I gave him the name of the hotel and my room number, and within a couple of hours Jivco called. He was already in Amsterdam.
“Where do you want to meet?” he said.
“How about Brasserie Noblesse?” I answered. It was right next door and Loderus had suggested it for reasons unknown to me.
Two hours later—it was suppertime by now—the young undercover and I were waiting for Jivco when he walked in with two gorillas. The bodyguards sat at an adjacent table while Jivco sat across from us. He wasn’t the small-talk type, so I made a little conversation. I told him I’d been in Canada for a bit and hadn’t seen Henry for a week or so.
“Never mind about Henry,” said Jivco. “He’s a junkie.”
“No he’s not!” I said. “He might have been, but he isn’t now. I live right next door to him.”
“Once a junkie, always a junkie,” he shot back.
“Whatever,” I said. “I’m here to do business, so let’s get it done.”
“How much you want?”
“The minimum on both.” We both knew that meant 200,000 hits of E and a pound of heroin.
“What logo and shade do you want?” he asked, referring to the ecstasy.
“Jaguar head logo and off-blue.”
“All of them?” Jivco told me it was better business to buy an assortment of colors and logos. Even if it was all the same stuff, some clients would be convinced that, for example, the pink was better than the blue, or the white stronger than the yellow. I followed his advice. Then he asked, “Do you want to pick it up here or have it delivered?”
“Delivered.”
“It’s going to cost you more, of course.”
“Of course. How much are we looking at?”
“Twenty thousand dollars.”
“Fine. My associate here will take care of it.”
That cued the young Dutch undercover to pipe up—something that always scares me. In this case, however, he came up with the perfect question. “Which account should we use?” he asked.
At that point I knew he could be relied upon. I’d never told Jivco I wanted the drugs in Toronto. I left that to the undercover to do later, along with paying the $20,000 down payment and delivery fee.
The next day I flew home and never saw Jivco or any of the Russians again. A week later the RCMP surprised me by paying me twenty-five thousand dollars for my middleman services. It ended up being worth it, I suppose, because a few weeks after that they arrested two Russians in Richmond Hill, a Toronto suburb, with the 200,000 hits of ecstasy and a pound of smack.
CHAPTER TEN
At War in Laughlin
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I hadn’t heard from Joe or anyone else since leaving San Diego and didn’t figure I would. That was fine with me. Back in Saint John, it was summertime, the sun was warm and we had more than enough money, especially since Joe was still paying me and I was still getting money for the PDR case.
Then one day Bob McGuigan called. His voice was so uncharacteristically cheerful that it took me a minute to recognize him.
“How’s your holiday?” he asked.
“Great,” I answered. “Wish you were here.”
“Ready to come back to work soon?”
“Sure, I guess,” I said, surprised.
“Well, we’ve got you a nice place in El Cajon and we’re getting it ready for you. So when you get back here, we can finally get back to doing what we were supposed to be doing in the first place.”
No wonder Bob was happy—we now seemed to have the green light to be going after the Hells Angels. I didn’t ask what happened with Henry and the Russians; I figured I’d learn soon enough, and still just assumed I’d been cut out.
“But this time we’ll have to play it right, no more fucking around,” I added before signing off, and gave Bob a short list of demands. On the material side of the ledger, I wanted the same money as I’d been getting for the Russians, plus all expenses, a vehicle other than the big van and, most important, a bike. If I was to go into El Cajon, also known as Hell Cajon, I was going onto their turf, and I wanted all the tools. On the operational side, I just told him that I wanted to make sure there wouldn’t be any of the vagueness that had characterized my first few months infiltrating the Dago Hells Angels.
Bob agreed to everything and met me at the San Diego airport when I arrived two Fridays later, the keys to a rented pickup in his hand. After a bit of chitchat he handed over the keys and said, “Follow me.”
Half an hour later we were standing in front of a large single-story industrial building on Cuyamaca Street. The DEA had rented almost all of it for me, about 2,500 square feet. Its only other occupant was a small takeout sandwich shop that operated out of the street side of the building. The plan was to move my Posterplus business to El Cajon. Space wouldn’t be a problem: there was ample room for a studio, an office, living quarters and even a small police listening post right in the building itself. In fact, the whole place had already been wired up with cameras and microphones. Clearly, the money had come through.
They’d even got a task force together for the investigation. It would be called Operation Five Star because of the five police forces involved: the DEA, the ATF, the San Diego Sheriff’s Department, the San Diego Police and the El Cajon Police.
I spent the first night in a motel and returned to my place on Turquoise Street to pack things up the next day, a Saturday afternoon. That’s when the Russian mystery deepened. There was no sign of Henry—his storefront was empty, all the furniture gone. Like
wise the car lot on the other side of me: all the vehicles had disappeared, even the trailer at the back of the lot that had served as an office. The only store left in the strip mall was the Latino hair stylist. I went in to talk to one of the girls.
“You know where Henry is?” I asked.
“He’s gone,” she said simply.
“Well, what about the car lot owner?”
“He’s gone too,” she said. She drew a finger across her throat.
I didn’t inquire further.
While working the Russians, I had seen virtually nothing of the biker contacts I had made during my first months in San Diego. Taz and the Indian had come by a couple of times and I’d run into them by chance around the neighborhood on occasion, since they both lived there. Chris Devon had come by maybe once, but then found better things to do. Brandon Kent I hadn’t seen at all. That I’d stopped going to the Harley-Davidson barbecues made as much difference as anything, I suppose. What I didn’t expect was that my extended absence would turn out to be a great boon to my credibility with the Hells Angels. If I’d been a cop, they figured, there was no way I would have just lain low like that for a year or so; I would have kept coming at them.
That first Saturday night I was back in San Diego, I dropped by Dumont’s and told a few people that I was moving my shop to Cuyamaca Street, slipping it casually into the conversation as the opportunity arose. I didn’t overplay it, though I did take pains to mention the news to Purple Sue, Dumont’s veteran barmaid, whom I knew to be the bar’s main purveyor of gossip and intelligence. The next afternoon I went to the weekly barbecue and did the same.
The first weeks were relatively slow. I wasn’t about to suddenly get in the Angels’ faces. But I did gradually become a regular at Dumont’s, spending more and more time chatting with the owner, Ramona Pete, and Bobby Perez, the tough-as-nails member whose job it was to patrol the surrounding block or so of El Cajon Boulevard that might as well have been declared an independent republic of the Hells Angels. It was home to the gang’s clubhouse and Stett’s Iron Horse Ranch, a bike shop owned by a former member who had quit the club in good standing and did all the customizing anyone needed. Nothing happened on that block without the say-so and knowledge of the Angels. Even the cops kept a low profile there.