Jersey Tough

by Wayne Bradshaw

  Memories was doing a brisk business for a weekday evening. It seemed as if the patrons weren’t sure what to do with us and so opted to leave us alone. Jake was acting quite differently from when he had left the house. Later, I learned that he was hitting the “green” heavily on the way over. The Pagan drug of choice was parsley-laced PCP, which we referred to simply as “green” because of its color. I’d tried the stuff only once and sworn to never use it again. Green is smoked like marijuana, but the PCP it contains leaves a man so high that pain means nothing. Satan laughs and spreads his wings every time someone consumes green.

  Slater shelled out for multiple rounds of shots for the group, and we were soon in an alcoholic glow, some burning brighter than others. As I swallowed another shot, I noticed that Slater was getting into a game of pool with one of the locals. A couple of guys were standing at the far end of the table as Slater crouched low to break with the cue ball. One of the men leaned down as well so that he could follow Slater’s break. Jake struck the cue ball low and hard, driving it up off the table and straight into the man’s face.

  The injured man bellowed loudly with a mix of anger and pain. Slater immediately flipped his cue stick around so that he was holding it by the thin end, and began smashing the untouched balls in the rack, sending them flying everywhere.

  A wild brawl broke out as Slater and the rest of our guys took on the locals with everything that was at hand, including smashed beer bottles, pool cues, beer mugs, bar stools, feet and fists.

  Bodies flew and tables broke as the brawl continued. Everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion around me as I focused on taking out the men directly in front of me. My army days came back to me as I picked my shots and avoided the flying limbs and projectiles.

  Countless police vehicles screeched to a halt outside the bar. The Keansburg Police had issued a mutual aid call, asking all the surrounding towns to send as many available units as possible. There were squad cars from Middletown, Union Beach and Hazlet—and all the cops were ready to mix it up with us. They were determined to bring a quick end to this brawl, and it didn’t seem to make much difference to them how it all ended.

  That night at Memories was like a western film fight. When we got outside, there was a wild light show from the flashing red lights on all the police vehicles. The police weren’t the only ones who had shown up in force. Drinkers had descended on Memories from other nearby bars, and they, too, wanted a shot at us. Some of the bar patrons threw empty beer bottles in our direction. If the cops hadn’t been there, we would likely have faced a very different, and brutal, kind of street fight that evening.

  As police flooded into the bar and brought things under control, Slater went to speak to a member of the Middletown Police Department whom he seemed to know. Later, I learned that the cop was the brother of the guy Stone who had been in the bar with us and who hadn’t fared so well in the free-for-all.

  While Slater was talking to the Middletown cop, I got into it with one of the officers from Keansburg, telling him to go fuck himself after he seemed to be showing off to the large and angry crowd. I instantly regretted my remark, because I’d long vowed not to piss off the cops. But I was stoned on adrenaline that night, and the two of us shared some very angry looks. I wondered if I’d just put a bull’s-eye on my back. Years later, the two of us would become good buddies, both working undercover drug operations.

  No one was anxious to point the finger at anyone else, and it seemed impossible for police to start identifying and cuffing those responsible for starting the brawl. Soon enough, we were allowed to get into our cars and drive out of Keansburg.

  Stone and Slater were among the first to leave in the van. But Stone didn’t get far before crashing into a utility pole. He wound up with a compound fracture to his leg. Slater was pretty banged up but otherwise okay. While the police were focusing their attention on the one-car crash, I headed off in the opposite direction—happy to make it away from the bar after that raucous hell ride of an evening.

  The next day, I got a call from Slater, who wanted to take me to lunch. Apparently I’d passed my vetting at Memories. The two of us hung out at a luncheonette in Middletown before heading over to Riverview Hospital in Red Bank to visit Stone. We listened to him harass the nurses about not getting enough pain meds until Slater tired of his act and we left. Later, as we drove back to Middletown in Slater’s cage, he told me about the possibility of establishing a new chapter of the Pagans Motorcycle Club to provide muscle for the area of Monmouth County near Sandy Hook. The president of that new chapter, the Sandy Hook Pagans, was going to be one Jake Slater.

  The Pagans Motorcycle Club was not a large group, with a membership estimated to be between three hundred and four hundred at any given time. Membership constantly fluctuated depending on the number of members who were in jail. Several other clubs were larger, including the Hells Angels, the Outlaws and the Bandidos, but the Pagans made up in ferocity what they lacked in numbers.

  Although the Pagans would state emphatically that the East Coast, from Maine to Florida and west as far as Ohio, was solid ground belonging to their club, the territory was interspersed, with areas held by other outlaw clubs, some defiant, some working to get along. The Warlocks were in Pennsylvania and Delaware, which was very strong Pagan turf. And the Warlocks were very hard-core. They operated in a manner just short of war, and any meeting of members by coincidence was a powder keg of tension.

  The Hells Angels had a large and tough chapter in NYC, but if they strayed into Long Island, the Pagans felt justified in retaliating. The Breed also teamed up with the Hells Angels, and so the Pagans were always at war with both the Breed and the Hells Angels. But the Breed were the ones most hated by the Pagans. At the time, the Feds had what they called the “Big Four” on their radar: the Hells Angels, Bandidos, Outlaws and Pagans.

  I knew very little about either the Breed or the Pagans when I was to starting to get involved with them. I didn’t care about the history of any of the outlaw motorcycle clubs at the time—or what others thought of them. If I liked the guys, I would ride in an outlaw club.

  One thing was certain, and I learned it very quickly: I was surrounding myself with some very bad hombres. These were not idle threat makers or phonies. Jail and violent death were a daily part of life. It would be a very unwise practice indeed for any life insurance company to provide a policy for any outlaw bikers.

  Like most chapters, the Sandy Hook Pagans Motorcycle Club would be small in number—comprised of Jake Slater, me and six others. Out of the eight men, only three appeared physically intimidating and cause for concern in a street fight—Jake, me and a guy named Ray Wolfe.

  None of the clubs would ever disclose the actual number of members they had, but only big-city chapters had large numbers of soldiers. And in Pagan gatherings, chapters would mingle so that a small chapter could appear more formidable than it really was. Each chapter was run a bit like a Lions or Kiwanis Club: meetings were held at scheduled times, and each chapter had a president, a vice president, a sergeant-at-arms, a secretary and a treasurer.

  It was very unclear at first whether the Sandy Hook Pagans would become a reality. What was clear was that the Pagans Motorcycle Club wanted to expand its influence, and the Jersey Shore was its target. Slater seemed perfectly suited to become the president of the new club, a tough-guy biker with a solid reputation for violence.

  But none of us were willing to do any prospecting. So it was up to Slater to convince the national president of the Pagans, Paul Ferry, aka “Oouch,” along with the 13 board members and most of the other club presidents, that the Sandy Hook Pagans should be granted instant club colors. That had never been done before, and the decision would be made by a group of men who had all prospected. Oouch had taken over for John “Satan” Marron, who was doing life in a maximum security prison in Virginia for a double murder. If Slater was successful but then something went wrong later, h
is ass would be on the line.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE SANDY HOOK PAGANS

  About two weeks later, word came down from Slater that the eight of us needed to meet at Stone’s house late one afternoon. We were told that we should bring our Harleys and that we would be meeting with Pagan leaders about setting up the new Sandy Hook chapter.

  When we got to the house, two U-Haul trucks were parked out front, and Slater told us to load our custom choppers onboard—and to then get in the back of the panel trucks with our bikes. Suddenly we realized that this was going to be a clandestine meeting and we weren’t supposed to know where it would take place. Slater was going to drive one of the trucks, and “Vinny,” the president of the Asbury Park chapter, would be driving the other. Vinny had spiderweb tattoos on both of his elbows. I was told at the time that they indicated membership in the Aryan Brotherhood, but I never asked and so had no idea if that was true. Others say the tattoos are worn by men who have done, or are doing, jail time.

  Inside the U-Hauls, the Harleys leaned heavily on their kickstands, and we used some blocks of wood as wheel chocks to prevent them from shifting. We also loaded some bottled beer on board, figuring that we’d want something to drink during the ride. We had a hunch that we were going to visit with Pagan leaders in their secret headquarters on Long Island.

  The vans were loud, but the ride was okay—better than we’d expected. The overhead light in the cargo area was left on, and we were able to move around the area, standing or sitting on the bikes, drinking beer and talking. The ride continued for about two hours, most of it on highways, judging from the road noise.

  When the rear doors were finally opened, we found ourselves in an industrial area off the Long Island Expressway, in a compound surrounded by an eight-foot-tall chain-link fence topped with concertina wire. It was close to dusk, with long shadows across the property and distant noise from the highway. In the center of the compound was an unpainted concrete-block structure with a flat roof, a steel entry door, a larger garage door and no signage of any kind. The fencing was reminiscent of the stuff used around county jails, and I wondered if the security was designed to keep people in or out, or perhaps both. A couple of Harleys and trucks were parked near the structure. But otherwise there was no clue as to what the building might have been used for. As Slater commanded, we pulled our bikes off the U-Haul trucks and parked them behind the building.

  A member of the Asbury Park Pagans wearing colors motioned to us to follow him, and we entered the Pagan equivalent of the White House; our group would indeed be meeting with the national president of the Pagans. We were in a large meeting-hall-type space, with doors in the rear that apparently led to other rooms deeper inside the building. The room had a large bar along one wall, with plenty of tables and chairs. The walls were covered with lavish woodwork, and numerous elaborate plaques on the walls honored fallen members. The space itself was quite comfortable. But the occupants made me wonder if I was going to live through the night.

  About 30 or so Pagans, most of them wearing colors, gathered around us—furious that non-members were being given access to this very special place, where we had no right to be. Some of them held “war clubs”—thick, heavy wooden walking sticks with the Pagan war god carved into the top as a handle. The war clubs were quite artistic and highly valued by members. They also looked stout and able to inflict serious danger on anyone daring to challenge a Pagan.

  “Who the fuck are you?” demanded an angry, bearded Pagan with a large beer belly and very wide girth. He stood just inches from my face and casually swung a war club in his right hand. “Who the fuck are you to walk into my house?”

  The others shouted at us from all angles and made equally threatening gestures. Nobody in our group had any sense of what was going to happen at this meeting, but I certainly hadn’t expected a bunch of angry men to be staring us down and threatening our lives. My senses were telling me that I was in serious danger, but I was determined to stand my ground. I did not react in fear or anger but tried to point out that I’d come with Jake Slater, and that I’d been invited. My remarks prompted more screaming and acrimony, but no one hit me with a war club.

  None of the Pagans bothered Slater, who walked right through the crowd and headed for the back of the room, where he just stood around for a few minutes, fiddling with something in his hands.

  We waited. Though the potential for a shit storm was clear, I wasn’t all that worried about getting smashed up by one or more Pagans, and the guys I was with seemed equally nonchalant about the danger. Somehow, we’d felt comfortable coming to the Pagan headquarters because we were with Slater. But now the guy had physically distanced himself from us and we were left to fend for ourselves.

  I wanted to partner up with the Pagans and had no problem if they wanted to see if I was a pussy or not. I had pumped iron for years and started learning Korean Karate from my brother Mike and his Jamaican friends, and felt very confident in a street fight. This would be my first chance to show I had steel. I wanted to show that I was as hard and tough as the hardest, toughest man in the Pagans. This club was seeded with some very dangerous men. It also was home to some members who didn’t appear as intimidating but were in fact assassins.

  Looking back, I now realize that we were probably in far more danger than I thought. No one knew where we’d gone that day, and we’d spent hours traveling in the back of two U-Hauls. What if this meeting didn’t go down as planned, and they decided we weren’t worthy of being Pagans? Would anyone have been able to track down the seven of us if we’d gone missing? It would have been real easy for those guys to get rid of us and our bikes.

  Things simmered down a bit when a door at the rear of the building opened and Oouch, the national president, came into the room and embraced Slater. He walked in with a posse that treated him with deference. Oouch acknowledged our presence with a nod, grabbed Slater and several of the other men nearby and retreated into the back room for a private meeting.

  Oouch, pronounced “Ooch,” was well built and stood about six feet tall, with long, fairly thick black hair that reached his back, full sleeve tattoos and a genuine air of command. Over time, I learned that he was respected as the natural leader that he was. He never seemed loud or abrasive and held a calm intelligence.

  There seemed nothing for the rest of us to do until Oouch finished his meeting with Slater.

  I turned to look at the heavy-set Pagan who’d been threatening me with the war club and asked if I could buy both of us a beer. Beer cost the same at all Pagan venues at the time—just 35 cents for a bottle. He agreed, and the two of us walked over toward the bar.

  The private meeting between Oouch and Slater continued for hours, and our guys just quietly hung at the bar, sipping beer and undergoing periodic rounds of questioning from the members. With no windows in the building, no clocks on the walls and no one with a watch, we had no idea how much time had passed. We just sat, bought beers for everyone, and waited. The fact that we were buying all the beer seemed to reduce the tension a bit.

  Still, there was an air of suspicion of the seven of us from New Jersey, and it was clear that people who were not prospects or patch holders did not normally gain entrance to this building. The issue of prospecting never came up, at least not in a way that reflected on us. Had these guys been aware of my negative personal attitude on prospecting, I am certain that our meeting would have had a decidedly different flavor.

  Slater eventually emerged from the private room in the back and told us it was time to leave. We walked outside as a group and were shocked to realize that the sun was coming up; we’d been in the building all night. Slater said we’d be riding back to New Jersey on our bikes, and that he and Vinny would lead the way in the U-Hauls. Some members of the Asbury Park Pagans who’d been in the headquarters would be joining us for the ride home; they all donned their colors before getting on their Harleys.

 
We left the compound and turned onto a secondary road. Within two blocks, three marked Nassau County Police Department vehicles pulled up behind us, switched on their emergency lights and pulled us over. They asked for the usual documents—license, registration and insurance cards—and asked where we were coming from and where we were going. Though we’d been drinking, I guess we weren’t drunk enough to warrant any roadside sobriety tests. They checked out our IDs and sent us on our way.

  Traffic was moving quickly on the Long Island Expressway (LIE) westbound, and we quickly settled into formation, staggered on the left and right sides of the lanes and riding behind the U-Hauls.

  Most drivers gave outlaw bikers a wide berth, and that was true for most of the people who were on the LIE this morning—there were not many chopped bikes on the road, and damned few outlaws. But a group of wasted college kids decided to hassle us, driving very close to the bikes at a speed close to 80 miles per hour. They flipped us the bird and inched closer to the bikes, a risky maneuver no matter what the circumstances.

  One of the Asbury Park Pagans was riding in front of me in the left lane when the car sped up and came between some of the bikers. He turned back to look at the vehicle for a second, then reached into his vest pocket, pulled something out and hurled it at the vehicle. I couldn’t see what he threw, but I knew it had to be pretty small.

  The sedan’s windshield suddenly imploded, showering the car’s four occupants with glass. I watched as the stunned driver lost control and the vehicle started to fishtail across the highway. We continued cruising west and I never got a chance to look back and see what happened.

  Later, we stopped for gas and I asked the Asbury Park Pagan what had happened. I told him that I never saw anything leave his hand.