by George Rowe
Because it was the thrill of fucking the forbidden fruit Big Todd was after. He didn’t care about my girlfriend any more than he cared about the other Vagos old ladies he’d slept with. Once Todd bagged his pussy he’d mount it on the wall and be done with it . . . and Jenna would be back on the street and on her way to joining her dead junkie friends. If that happened, a sweet little girl would be left without a mother.
I swear, taking care of the fire chief’s daughter was like caring for a puppy. Let her out and life was sure to run her over. For her own good, I couldn’t let Jenna go. Of course, I couldn’t trust her either. Not anymore . . . and probably not ever again. Like my old flame Darlene used to tell me: once trust is gone, baby, it’s gone.
17
A Promise of War
Operation 22 Green was barely plodding along in the summer of 2004, one year after I’d been patched into the Vagos. For me it was the dog days . . . every day, all the time. Sure, I continued making gun buys for ATF—even an occasional drug buy—but for the most part my life as a motorcycle outlaw was all about riding from one place to another, getting shitfaced, then riding back home again. Sprinkle that routine with even more drinking, the occasional fight and those Wednesday-night church socials, where the same tired bullshit was rehashed over and over again, and you’ve got a pretty good handle on life as a one percenter.
But every once in a while the seamy underbelly of that overgrown boy’s club would be exposed; a big meth deal here, a shooting there and an occasional civilian beat-down thrown in for good measure. Some of the Vagos would be answering for those sins on the day of the takedown, but I wanted more. I was after the big score. My opportunity came that summer with rumblings of an impending gang war between the Vagos and the Hells Angels.
As I said, there was nothing like a good ol’ fashioned gang war to break a few laws and get those indictments flowing under the RICO Act. You got one outlaw talking about rolling on the enemy, no one paid attention, but you got twenty of those bastards talking and you had yourself a criminal organization—which could go a long way toward a federal racketeering case.
The Hells Angels and the Vagos had been beating on each other for years, but even more so in the months since I’d decked that Angel at The Crossroads Bar and Grill. Those two enemies never needed much of an excuse to throw down with each other, but Big Roy decided to give them one anyway.
Eighteen months earlier the Hemet P had led his boys into Bro’s Toy Box, chain-whipped Bro and made off with several members of his club, including Sparks, North and Buckshot. Now Bro had gone and done the unthinkable. He’d patched in with the Sons of Hell, a support club for the Hells Angels. These were the same fuckers that had been no-shows the night Crash and I had gotten shitfaced and gone looking for trouble in Lake Elsinore.
What chafed Roy’s ass was that the Sons had patched Bro in despite pinkie-swearing never to bring any former member of the Bros into their club. Guess it wasn’t enough to rip the man’s head open with a chain and take his club apart. Big Roy wanted him banished from the outlaw world altogether. Much to his chagrin, though, that wasn’t happening. The Sons of Hell were standing firm on club pride and allowing Bro to keep his patch—which wasn’t that hard when you had a big brother the size of the Hells Angels standing behind you.
Outlaw motorcycle gangs went to war for many reasons, but personal slights fell pretty far down the list. And yet the Hemet P was demanding satisfaction. Big Roy felt betrayed, and among the one percenters’ sacred commandments, betrayal touches on that most mortal of sins: disrespect. How Roy intended to avenge that insult would be the subject of our chapter’s next Wednesday-night church meeting, to be held at the $300,000 home Jenna and I had just moved into . . . and which the feds had wired from top to bottom and one end to the other.
The new house on Espirit Circle came to us thanks to Jenna’s dad, who had stepped down as Hemet’s fire chief and was retiring as a captain. Jenna and I attended his going-away ceremony at the civic center in a room jammed with Riverside County firemen and cops. I knew quite a few of those officers and sheriffs’ deputies. At one time or another I’d been handcuffed by most of them.
Toward the end of the evening, Jenna took the microphone and addressed the room. She told her father how much she appreciated all he’d done for her, how hard he’d worked to keep her off drugs and how much she admired him. As she spoke, the captain was moved to tears. He told me later that his daughter’s courageous and heartfelt speech had helped bring some closure between them.
Bill had remarried around that time, and his new wife’s home, just down the street from his own, was now standing vacant. During one of our backyard barbeques he asked if I might be interested in leasing the place to own it.
Hell yeah, I was interested.
“I think you deserve better than where you’re at,” Bill said to me. “A fresh start couldn’t hurt, right?”
I knew where this was leading. Ever the counselor, Bill had often tried talking me out of the dead-end life of the motorcycle outlaw. I’d listen to the man’s arguments, nod understanding, then go right back to riding with the Vagos.
“It’s just that you always seem to have one foot in and one foot out,” Bill said to me once. “From everything I’ve seen, I don’t think your heart’s really in it.”
“You might be right, Pops.”
“So why not get out?”
“It’s complicated,” I told him. “But believe me, it’s not forever. Someday things are gonna change. You’ll see.”
“I really hope so. Because to be honest I don’t see much of a future for you with those people.”
Eventually Bill gave up trying to change my mind, a lesson he’d no doubt learned the hard way with Jenna. Besides, even a man who rode with an outlaw motorcycle gang had to be a step up from the drug-dealing, abusive sons-of-bitches his daughter had been shacking up with in the past.
Man, I couldn’t vacate that shack in Valle Vista fast enough. Jenna and I went from living in a complete dump to a high-end property with a Jacuzzi bathtub and a spare bedroom for Old Joe. My buddy could finally move out of his Spartan fifteen-foot travel trailer.
Jenna wasn’t exactly doing handsprings when she found out Joe would be following us to the other side of the tracks, but she sure was a happy piglet in her fancy new pen. That girl didn’t want for anything. My Family Tree Service business was booming, so I paid all the bills and kept a little extra in her bank account so she had spending money.
By this time Jenna had graduated school and was working as a medical assistant in a family practice, so Old Joe became the designated nanny, shuttling little Sierra to preschool and dance lessons.
Yes, indeed. We were just one big all-American happy family. Jenna was still struggling with her demons, of course, but since the Todd episode she’d been making an honest effort to keep her shit together and be a good mother to Sierra and a faithful girlfriend to me.
Lying in bed together our first night in the new house, she snuggled close and whispered, “Thank you.”
“What’s that for?”
“For keeping me safe,” she said. “I love you, George.”
I didn’t know what to say to that . . . so I didn’t say anything.
It’s true I still had feelings for Jenna, but I honestly couldn’t say I loved her. Not after all the shit she’d put me through. I was just trudging my way forward, dragging her ass behind me. And let me tell you, man—between the lying and the cheating and the drug use, that five-foot-six, 120-pound load was some heavy weight to haul.
When I told Uncle Johnny Law about our new house on Espirit Circle, his eyes lit up with the possibilities. A homeowner with Loki on his back was an ideal setup for gathering intelligence—especially one with digs like ours. John’s idea was to wire the entire place for sound and picture, then invite the Vagos in for their Wednesday-night church get-together. The Hemet boys were meeting in garages. Compared to that, my place would be like a boardroom at the Hyatt
. They’d jump all over that shit.
ATF required a day and a half to completely outfit the house, so they had to maneuver carefully around Jenna’s work schedule. As soon as she drove off in the morning, the technicians swooped in with their vans—one painted to look like an alarm installation company. These boys were surveillance specialists, and they were damn good at what they did. The techs moved fast but deliberately through the rooms, tearing up walls, placing electronics, then patching things up again. And, man, that gear was small. We’re talking flea-shit tiny. Even if the Vagos knew what to look for, they never would have found it.
About midafternoon, while the installation was still in progress, I heard a motorcycle pull into the driveway and peeked out the window. It was Big Todd. He’d been reinstated as the chapter’s sergeant at arms by this time and apparently considered us best buddies again. The sonofabitch never did apologize for screwing my girlfriend. The man just went about his business like nothing ever happened.
The garage was wide open, so Todd walked straight on through and entered the house like he owned the place.
“Hey, what’s happenin’, Big George?”
Todd still called me Big George, but to the rest of the Vagos I was now simply known as George. Big Roy had finally decided there were too many “Bigs” in the chapter, and since I was the last Big to come aboard, mine had to go. Roy tried to saddle me with the road name “Risky” instead, claiming it was because I was always on edge and you never knew what I might do. He even tried getting the rest of the chapter to call me Risky, but each time those bastards threw it out there I swatted them down. Something about working undercover with the name Risky didn’t quite work for me.
Risky the Rat. Fuck that.
I knew of another patch holder who once drove a recycled police car. The name he got stuck with was “Cop,” and members kept their distance from that dude like he was contagious. Nope, I might have been a snitch, but no way were they going to pin Risky on me. So I took Big George off the cut and settled for plain old George instead.
“You’re putting that alarm system in, huh?” said Todd.
“Yeah. Finally getting it done,” I told him.
On John Carr’s suggestion, I’d spread the word among the Vagos that I’d be alarming the house . . . and surprise visitors like Big Todd were the reason why. He dodged one of the busy technicians and headed to the fridge for a cold beer.
“You hear the latest about Bro?” he said while fishing for a bottle.
“What about him?”
“The Sons of Hell said they won’t boot him. Roy’s fuckin’ pissed.”
“What’s he gonna do?” I asked.
Todd twisted the cap off a beer, then nearly bumped into one of the installers on his way to hook up the garage.
“Well, you didn’t hear it from me,” he said, “but looks like we’re goin’ after them.”
“Think so?”
“I know so, brother. And I can’t fuckin’ wait.”
He plopped down in an armchair, swigged his beer and grinned at the activity around him.
“Fuck. Nobody’s gettin’ in here, huh?”
Big Todd stayed for another hour, drinking free beer and shooting the shit while saws buzzed and hammers pounded. The ATF boys never stopped working.
At 7:30 on Wednesday night, the Hemet Vagos gathered at the house to decide the fate of the treacherous Bro and those two-faced bastards, the Sons of Hell. Before the meeting got under way and club business was discussed, Big Roy took me aside and said he would have to take certain precautions. Next thing I knew, in walked some dude with one of those security wands you saw TSA using at the airport. This wasn’t uncommon. The wand had come out before at other church meetings, even at Roy’s place in San Jacinto.
I held my breath as the bug man started circling the room, moving the wand along the walls, the furniture, my stereo equipment, the lights and the fixtures—each time calling out, “Clear.” It was clear this, and clear that. Well, one thing was perfectly clear to me . . . whatever the Vagos were paying that scammer, I wanted to double it. As I was watching him work, I was thinking, Why, you dumb bastard. This whole house is infested. That thing should be screaming “BUGS!”
But no. Instead the Vagos’ so-called expert gave a final “all clear,” packed his wand, stuck the check in his back pocket and walked out the door.
Let the intelligence gathering begin.
The situation with old nemesis Bro had Big Roy in a lather right from the get-go.
“It’s gonna be on,” he announced to the troops. “But if we make a move on that motherfucker, we make a move on all of them. If the Sons of Hell try to stop us, we’ll fuck them up too and take their patches.”
A little louder for the microphones, please.
“Someone could pull a gun,” pointed out Big Todd.
“Maybe we should bring guns too,” said Iron Mike.
“There are already brothers who carry guns everywhere we go,” North assured the room.
Several heads bobbed in acknowledgment before Ready pointed out the obvious, “You know, we could lose a brother over a piece of shit.”
That got Roy heated. “All I know is, those fuckers broke the agreement and they’re not making him give up the patch. We need to start gearing up fast, because summertime is when this shit usually goes down.”
“What does national say?” Sparks wanted to know.
“Tramp’s talking with the Berdoo Angels now,” Roy replied, “but they’re backing the Sons of Hell like we back The Green Machine.”
“You really think the Angels will get involved?” asked Ready, visibly concerned.
“Fuck the Angels,” declared Big Todd.
“Hell, yeah. They’re not gonna mess with us,” said a cocksure Roy. “We fuckin’ own California.”
Man, I almost laughed out loud when I heard that one. Big Roy was delusional. If the Vagos went after the Sons of Hell, the Angels would almost certainly jump into the ring to defend their little brothers. And if that happened, a gang war could spread through the region like a brush fire whipped by the Santa Ana winds. I was keeping my fingers crossed.
After the meeting Roy took me aside.
“Remember that pistol I showed you a while back?”
“You mean the 7.62?” I said for posterity.
“Still want to buy it?”
The next afternoon I walked into the Lady Luck with a pocket full of money and a microphone. Roy went behind the counter and brought out the Czech-made pistol he’d shown me the year before. He didn’t explain why he was selling it, and I didn’t care. But the sale didn’t come without stipulations.
“Here’s the deal. I’ll let you buy the gun, but I don’t want you reselling it, understand? I don’t want this thing coming back to bite me in the ass.”
“Understood,” I said. “Don’t worry, man. I’ll keep it safe.”
As I counted out the money, I couldn’t thank Roy enough for that badass gun—and for selling it to a man with a felony who couldn’t buy firearms on his own. And when the deal was done, and that 7.62 was mine, so was Big Roy’s ass.
Gotcha, motherfucker. See you ’round the prison yard.
I took the pistol back to the house on Espirit Circle, where John Carr photographed it, slipped it into a bag, then told me he was taking the weapon back to ATF as evidence.
“You can’t do that,” I said. “Roy told me to hang on to it.”
“I can’t let you keep it, George.”
“Well what if he asks to see it? I’ll be in so much shit.”
“We’ll figure it out,” said John. “Maybe you can tell him you sold it.”
“He doesn’t want the fuckin’ thing floating around out there. That’s the whole point.”
John shrugged. “Sorry, dude. I can’t let you keep it.”
End of topic. We were on to gang war, and John seemed confident the Vagos were headed in that direction. Apparently the Victorville Vagos had been making noise about r
iding against the Sons of Hell. Victorville was Psycho’s chapter, and that High Desert region was Terry the Tramp’s stomping grounds, so you know those two had to be in touch.
“Psycho’s been talking about hitting the Sons of Hell to make a statement,” John told me. “They’re talking about pulling their patches and stealing motorcycles.”
This was news to me. I’d heard nothing at the Hemet church meetings.
“Where’s that coming from?” I wanted to know.
John paused, then said, “We’ve got someone in Victorville.”
“What?”
“We’ve had someone under with Psycho’s chapter since March.”
Another informant? No shit.
I can’t really explain why, but it was an oddly comforting feeling knowing someone else was out there doing the same crazy shit I was. I wasn’t alone anymore.
“Do I know this guy?” I asked.
“Might. His name’s Charles. They call him Quick Draw.”
That didn’t ring any bells. I might have bumped into this Quick Draw at the Screaming Chicken or any number of places, but I couldn’t place him. Even so, once John gave me a little background, I felt like I had a pretty good handle on that government informant.
Charles was the classic CI, a man working off a plea deal to save his bacon.
He’d been convicted of armed robbery in Nevada, then busted by the DEA for running a meth lab in Pinon Hills, just over the San Bernardino Mountains. Charles had been facing serious federal time, as many as twenty years behind the walls, and hadn’t been crazy about the idea. So he’d entered into a plea arrangement with the U.S. Attorney’s Office in California. In return for his freedom, Charles had agreed to infiltrate the Mexican mafia for the DEA.
Once the DEA had finished with him, they’d turned him over to a sheriff’s detective in San Bernardino. She was Shelli Kelly, a longtime veteran of the department who knew a thing or two about biker gangs. Detective Kelly’s backyard was San Berdoo, considered the womb of outlaw country after delivering several infamous one percenter gangs like the Hells Angels and, some might claim, the Vagos.