Gods of Mischief

by George Rowe

  For two decades now, a handful of ATF undercover specialists have been a constant thorn in the side of California’s outlaw bikers. Fact is, most of the largest OMG takedowns in United States history came as a direct result of that group’s expertise.

  Every outlaw in the state is aware of those ATF boys, and every outlaw club works constantly to keep those special agents and their hated CIs (confidential informants) from infiltrating the ranks of the brotherhood. This tug-of-war between the one percent who refuse to compromise their lifestyle and the lawmen determined to hold them accountable has been waged since the end of World War Two. That was when returning GIs, who learned to ride and repair motorcycles in the service, banded together on war-surplus V-Twins and rode off to have some fun.

  Over time those bikers’ reckless definition of fun had them butting heads with law enforcement, but then things got territorial and clubs began turning on each other like children fighting over the same sandbox. This roughhousing was tolerated to a point, but when the bullies stepped outside the box to brawl with the rest of us, law enforcement began smacking them down. For the ATF, this evolved into a marathon game of Whac-a-Mole. Every time the feds clobbered an outlaw on the head, another popped up. They simply wouldn’t go away.

  The Los Angeles Field Division of the ATF has been whacking away at Green Nation and its international president, Terry the Tramp, since the late 1990s. In 1997, Darrin “Koz” Kozlowski, one of the ATF undercover specialists out of Los Angeles, managed to infiltrate the Vagos Hollywood chapter posing as an outlaw. The agent’s cover was soon blown and the operation folded, but two years later the ATF went after the Vagos once again, this time using a confidential informant named Hammer.

  Hammer was a full-patch Vagos and known narcotics trafficker doing time on a parole violation. With only a handful of months to go before his release, he was ordered to do an inside hit for the Nazi Low Riders, a white supremacist prison gang. Hammer declined the job, which pissed off the Low Riders and put his life in jeopardy.

  Hammer was desperate to get out from behind the walls, and his parole officer put him in touch with ATF. In exchange for a “get out of jail free” card, Hammer agreed to inform on the Vagos, going under with his old chapter in Pasadena. Operation Green Nation folded prematurely but resulted in the arrests of a dozen Vagos members on firearms and narcotics charges. Mission accomplished, ATF relocated Hammer to Utah, where he was later found drowned in a Jacuzzi, done in by a drug overdose.

  Since that time, no special agent or CI had been able to penetrate the Vagos membership. And for good reason. Tired of cops and rats sneaking in the back door, Terry the Tramp and his nervous minions squeezed their butt cheeks tight.

  Hammer (right) while undercover with the Vagos in 1999.

  The sheriff from Riverside understood this, which was why he was dangling money and motorcycles before me like carrots on a stick. That lawman knew damn well that any stranger who tried buddying up to the Vagos now would make those assholes pucker up. But George Rowe was a different story. I was no stranger. Both the chapter president and his second-in-command had tried recruiting me into the club. The Hemet Vagos wanted me on their team; all I had to do was walk through the door and announce, “Here I am, boys, I’m all yours!”

  But that wasn’t going to happen—at least not with the sheriff as my partner. I’d survived forty-two years on pure instinct, and there was just something about that lawman that set five-alarm bells ringing. So when I called Detective Duffy the next morning and told him I might be willing to hook up with the Vagos, the offer came with a caveat: I’d put my ass on the line, but not for his task force buddy.

  At first Kevin tried changing my tune; the special investigations unit had the experience . . . his man could be trusted. But my mind wouldn’t be changed, and when the detective realized that, he stopped trying.

  “Alright, you go with your gut,” Kevin said at last, “and I’ll see what I can do.”

  I’d be lying if I said there were no second thoughts as I waited for Kevin Duffy’s return call. Matters weren’t helped by the sheriff, who kept hounding me on that throwaway phone. He was hot for an inside man. I just wanted him out of my life. So I blew up the call minutes and tossed that phone in a nightstand drawer.

  Within a few days Kevin called back with news. He’d found someone he thought I could work with, an ATF agent working out of the Bureau’s Los Angeles field office. Because Kevin didn’t trust his brothers in blue, he suggested another meeting at the dump off Warren Road. As an alternative I suggested a daylight rendezvous in Bee Canyon, a remote area of dirt trails and scrub brush ten minutes from the apartment, which I knew like the back of my hand.

  Heading into the parched foothills east of Valle Vista, where nothing much lived but snakes and buzzards, I passed the ranger station and turned up Bee Canyon Truck Trail. Not long after I pulled off the road and parked in that empty place, a silver Ford Expedition came lurching up the dirt track and pulled in behind me.

  I stepped from the cab and started toward it cowboy style, cigarette dangling from my lips and a .380 revolver tucked into an open shoulder holster. I wasn’t supposed to be carrying a firearm—I was a convicted felon—but I figured I was one of the boys now and could get away with it.

  Kevin Duffy popped from the passenger’s seat, snapping, “Hide that thing!”

  Guess I figured wrong.

  He gestured for me to take his place up front, and I did as ordered while he climbed in back. I slipped into the seat and nodded to the man behind the wheel.

  My first impression of Special Agent John Carr was that he looked like he belonged on a surfboard off Redondo Beach. Carr was in his late thirties, with a muscular build, slightly Asian features and jet-black, shoulder-length hair. During his time undercover with the Mongols MC, the members gave him the road name “Hollywood.”

  The ATF agent who would become a partner and confidant through my three grueling years as a federal informant was a former athlete who loved the camaraderie of the team and the thrill of eighties crime dramas like Miami Vice. He found both in law enforcement, where he’d discovered an affinity for undercover work. Only a week after graduating the academy, Carr was out in the field buying illicit machine guns. It would have been a short-lived career, except the weapons dealer, sniffing a mole, executed the wrong man.

  Back in the day, I’d get high on coke and meth. John Carr got high on the action. By the time we met in the wilds of Bee Canyon, he’d worked over two hundred drug and weapons cases, infiltrated the Mongols, handled scores of undercover agents and informants (including Koz and Hammer) and been involved with some of the biggest motorcycle gang takedowns in United States history.

  Within law enforcement circles, Special Agent Carr was one of the true rock stars.

  Kevin Duffy had heard of John Carr through a sheriff’s deputy working with the One Percenter Task Force, a group Carr had formed with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department two years earlier. Now here was the ATF special agent sitting next to me, sizing me up—curious to know if I’d make a legitimate candidate for undercover work.

  Right away Kevin wanted assurances I’d be safe in government hands. To his credit, Carr didn’t bullshit him.

  “Detective, if we go forward with this,” said the agent, “my only guarantee is that I’ll have your man’s back for as long as he’s under.” Then he turned to me and said, “Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough,” I answered.

  Agent Carr was a straight shooter. I hadn’t known what to expect, but I liked the man immediately.

  He asked about my background, my experience with one percenters and whether I’d ridden with any biker gangs—which I hadn’t.

  “But you do ride?” he asked.

  “Pretty much all my life,” I told him. “My old man bought me a scrambler when I was a kid. But I couldn’t reach the brake pedal, so the only way to stop was by jumping off the fuckin’ thing.”

  Carr grinned. “What are
you riding now?”

  I sheepishly glanced at Kevin, who answered for me.

  “George doesn’t own a motorcycle at the moment,” he said.

  Sad, but unfortunately true. And I was still kicking myself for selling that beautiful machine. I’d custom built a Harley shovelhead old-school. She had a big 106-inch motor, drag bars, raked frame, suicide shifter and, oh yeah, fuck the turn signals. Man, I loved that chopper, but I’d needed quick cash to finance a new and expensive hobby . . . gambling. That’s right, ol’ George had swapped one addiction for another. With a personality like mine, walking the straight and narrow was a never-ending struggle. For every two steps forward there was that inevitable step back. And gambling was a monster one.

  A few months before our meeting in Bee Canyon, I’d sold that shovelhead for chump change to a dentist who rode with another motorcycle club in Hemet called the Bros. That Harley was worth twice what “Doc” paid for it. But, hey, at least I could play the slots.

  I just couldn’t ride with the Vagos.

  “No bike, huh? I can see how that might be a problem,” said Carr, straight-faced. “Funny thing about bikers. They ride bikes.”

  The fucker had a sense of humor too.

  “Tell you what, though,” he continued. “If we go forward and if you get in—and that’s a pretty big if—we’ll find you a bike.”

  “I’ll get in,” I assured him.

  “It’s possible,” replied Carr. “You seem like a likable guy. You’re outgoing. You’ve got a look that fits. And Detective Duffy tells me you know the Vagos in Hemet. That’s no small thing. But the chapters are being cautious right now. The Vagos got burned not too long ago. I know because I was one of the guys that burned them.”

  Carr was talking about Operation Green Nation. Even before Hammer OD’d in that Utah Jacuzzi, Green Nation’s border had been on lockdown. Joining the Vagos now was like being screened through cheesecloth. Fortunately for me, that wasn’t the case in Hemet. Big Roy wanted to lead the biggest, baddest outlaw chapter in all the land—one that would grab the attention of Terry the Tramp up in Hesperia—and he was on an aggressive recruiting drive to make it happen. Like the English press gangs of old, they’d even muscled members away from the Bros MC, including Doc, who owned my old chopper.

  “I’ll get in,” I repeated confidently.

  “Let me ask you something,” said Carr. “What exactly are you looking to get out of this, George?”

  There was no hesitation.

  “I want to catch whoever did David and get those assholes off the street.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” I said. “People in Hemet are afraid, okay? I’m just trying to do what’s right.”

  Carr swallowed a smile. I knew how I sounded—like an idealistic Eagle Scout taking a break from escorting little old ladies across the street. Thing is, I meant every word.

  Carr was understandably skeptical.

  “George, people always want something.”

  “Look, this isn’t about money if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said heatedly. “You just asked me what I wanted, and I told you. That’s it. End of story.”

  But Carr still couldn’t wrap his head around it. An agent drew a paycheck while undercover, an informant worked off his case and stayed out of prison. Me, the man with nothing to gain and everything to lose, was asking for nothing and risking everything.

  In his twelve years with the Bureau, Special Agent Carr had pretty much seen and heard it all. But this was a new one for both an agent and an agency with a storied history of busting motorcycle outlaws. No private citizen had ever volunteered for such an assignment, let alone risked their neck without reward. Sometime later, while recalling our first meeting, John Carr said he thought I had to be naive, full of shit or just plain crazy . . . maybe all three.

  There would be times when I thought so myself.

  “Alright, George,” he said at last. “You start hanging around with the Vagos, and we’ll see where it takes us. If it looks like you can get in, and if you’re still willing to do this thing, I’ll pull the paperwork together and we’ll make it official. That work for you?”

  “Works for me.”

  He extended his hand and I clasped it firmly.

  “You know, there is one thing,” I said quickly.

  Carr’s jaw tightened. I knew he had to be thinking, Here it comes.

  “When this is all over,” I said, “I want five minutes alone in the cell with Todd and Roy. That’s all I ask. Five minutes to teach those bitches a lesson.”

  “I can’t promise that,” said Carr matter-of-factly. “But if we get to that point, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Good enough, I thought. I pumped the agent’s hand and sealed the deal.

  In hindsight I realize John Carr must have known the shitstorm I was headed for. He’d sailed that way countless times with others. Of course, blaming anyone but myself for what followed would be like suing Marlboro for shoving those coffin nails in my mouth. Truth was, it was my decision—and mine alone—to go under. Special Agent Carr was never anything but straight with me.

  Moreover, the man was doing his job. The day I fell into Carr’s lap was the day the feds bagged their Golden Goose. Someone with the right connections and no suspicious background or agenda. Someone who could slip easily into the brotherhood of tight-knit one percenters and bust them from the inside. The ATF would have been fools not to cash in.

  On the drive home from Bee Canyon the enormity of the task ahead started tap-tap-tapping at my mind. I held a brief conversation with the man in the rearview mirror. It went something like, What the fuck, George? What kind of crazy shit are you getting yourself into?

  It’s true I hadn’t yet signed on the dotted line, but paperwork was just a formality. I’d pushed my chips all-in, a commitment that had my guts twisted into a double clove hitch. Had I another half ounce of brains, I would have kept driving to the I-215, made a run to LAX and caught the next flight to Peru. But bailing on the vow I’d made to God, myself and the people of Hemet was unthinkable now. I’d been many things in my life; a quitter had never been one of them.

  Anyway, if I was going to do this thing, the timing would never be as good. I had no wife, girlfriend or family to place in harm’s way. My old man was long gone, my mother had died a few years earlier and both sisters had moved on. My adoptive family had washed their hands of me following the infamous “midget affair.” Yes, I’d had a son out of wedlock, but he was with his mom and I seldom saw him. I was free and clear to infiltrate the Vagos.

  The only sticking point was Old Joe.

  Old Joe was my best buddy and trusted partner in Family Tree Service, my Hemet landscaping and tree-trimming business. If I was headed somewhere, chances were Old Joe was riding shotgun in the truck. During the fifteen years I’d known the man, we’d formed a kinship tight as blood. Didn’t start out that way, though. When I first laid eyes on Joe, I thought he had to be the dumbest sonofabitch I ever saw, with a long, gangling body, a slow way of talking and a nose so big it arrived before he did.

  Only my friend wasn’t stupid. Far from it. Old Joe had once been a supervisor for a big medical equipment firm up in Orange County, where he’d shared a white-collar home with his wife and two kids. Hell, the man even coached Pop Warner football. But then his wife divorced him and took their youngest with her. And when the older boy moved in with his girlfriend, my buddy was left all by his lonesome in that big empty house.

  Joe’s father was a Methodist minister who’d married the church organist and retired to Hemet in the early eighties. After the preacher died and his wife suffered a paralyzing stroke a few weeks later, Joe played the dutiful son and moved down to Hemet to care for her. Unfortunately his mom was gone within a year.

  Alone again, with his career over and too much time and money on his hands, Old Joe started abusing methamphetamine. I know this for a fact because I was his supplier back in the bad old days
.

  Meth beat Joe up pretty good. In his gentle, soft-spoken way, my friend would be the first to tell you he wasn’t the most handsome sonofabitch on the planet, but tweaking—that’s what meth-heads call the high—didn’t help his looks any. Meth rotted the teeth, sucked up his cheeks and wilted that man’s face like a baked apple. It took a little time, but my buddy managed to kick that nasty habit, only to fall hard into alcohol. When the IRS came calling a few months later and seized his family home for taxes, Old Joe threw up his hands and hit rock bottom.

  Now he was living in a fifteen-foot travel trailer, bought from a dude named Pooch, that I’d parked under a tree at the far end of the chicken coop. When I returned to Valle Vista from Bee Canyon, Joe heard my truck arrive and emerged from his trailer. I was in no mood to talk, so I went straight into the apartment, grabbed a glass and poured myself a stiff jolt of Turkey.

  My buddy knocked once and stepped through the door as I was pouring another.

  “Where you been,” he said in his lazy drawl.

  “Had some business.”

  “That right? Something I should know about?”

  “Nothing that concerns you,” I said.

  Joe fidgeted uncomfortably. “Everything alright, George?”

  “Everything’s fine,” I said before draining the bourbon.

  He lingered a moment, then drifted back outside, quietly shutting the door behind him. I never kept secrets from Joe and I hated to start now, but this was a big one, and I didn’t want to open my mouth until I’d finalized things with Special Agent Carr. Besides, there was no telling how Old Joe would react to the news. Yes, he saw the Vagos as a bunch of misbehaved children who needed a good belt whipping, but there was no love for the United States government either. Just a few years earlier the IRS had snatched his family home and booted him into the street. Now here I was, sleeping with the enemy.