by George Rowe
“And I’m her dad.”
“Fuck you, George. Anyone can be a daddy, but Sierra’s only got one father, and I’m gonna tell her that.”
He tried moving past me into the house. I pressed a hand against his chest.
“No, you’re not. You’re gonna come back when you’re sober, and we’ll talk then.”
“Fuck you,” he said, slapping my hand away.
That’s when I hit him.
Billy bounced off the cement floor and somehow got wedged between the washer and dryer. Wasn’t much of a fight after that. I went crazy on the sonofabitch, kicking him in the head until he was nearly unconscious. Far as I was concerned, I was dealing with one of those “shit talkers” from my bareknuckle fighting days and was putting the boot to him. I didn’t want that abusive bastard ever coming back into our lives again, and I was making damn sure he got the message.
When the lesson was over, Billy’s own sister didn’t recognize him. She pushed his bloody wreckage into her truck and hauled it away.
That was the last time Jenna and I ever saw him.
20
Aloha, Brothers
In September of 2005, the ATF paid my way to Hawaii for the annual Labor Day run to Kona on the big island of Hawaii. It was supposed to be a working vacation on the government tit, traveling to make a gun buy from a member of the Vagos chapter in Puna. But after buying weapons from a patch named Woodstock, I ate bad shellfish and spent the next five days with my ass and head in the toilet.
If I was going to be sick and flat on my back for a week, though, at least the room was nice. The four-star hotel overlooked the beach, while the rest of Green Nation were slumming it in the cheap seats farther inland, forced to endure the clatter of tired air conditioners.
Only one other Vago shared my luxurious accommodations on the Kona coastline, some big ol’ goober-looking dude I spotted kicking around the parking lot. I thought it was curious that we were the only two greenies in that particular hotel, but I didn’t bother thinking it through. I was more concerned with running out of toilet paper.
Problems had followed Green Nation across the ocean. The Puna Hawaii Vagos were having issues with another motorcycle club on the island called the Kinsmen. You would’ve thought with soft sandy beaches and tropical breezes those Hawaii boys would have been a mellower brand of outlaw. But no. They were making plans to remove the Kinsmen’s patches by force. What seemed to bother the Vagos most was the “81” patch the Kinsmen wore on their cuts; the eighth letter in the alphabet is H, and A is the first. That would be the Hells Angels.
It was always about those fucking Angels. Not sure why there was so much contempt for the mighty red and white. Could be the Vagos saw them as a bunch of prima donnas who walked around thinking their shit didn’t stink. Or it just might have been a chronic case of Angel envy. There are a ton of one percenters out there who get a stiffy at the mere thought of an Angel’s death’s head on their back. Big Todd, for one, had himself a huge man-crush on that outlaw club.
Whatever the reason, because the Kinsmen were advertising support for Green Nation’s archenemies, Tramp had given those Puna boys the green light to rip the patch off any Kinsmen that crossed their path. I got that same order direct from the big kahuna himself, who told me I could keep the patches as battle trophies.
But taking scalps was the furthest thing from my mind as I lay room-bound with my stomach cramping and nasty shit blasting from every orifice. John Carr had come knocking . . . and he’d brought company. Standing with him on the second-floor walkway was ATF Special Agent Kozlowski and that big ol’ goober-looking Vago from the parking lot.
Fuck!
“No way, man. No fuckin’ way,” I cursed at John. “This ain’t happening.”
“Just listen to me a minute,” he said, extending his hand to stop Koz from following him into the room.
“I don’t fuckin’ appreciate what you’re doing, man. You know how I felt about this.”
“George, I’m sorry. But this had to happen. You and Charles have seen each other around the hotel. Koz and I thought it’d be best to have you two meet instead of looking at each other sideways the whole time you’re here.”
That smelled like bullshit. I just sat on the bed and slow cooked.
“You know I would never jeopardize your safety. I wouldn’t do that to you,” John insisted before gesturing toward the door. “I’m just telling you Charles is a good guy.”
I looked past him to the CI from Victorville. Quick Draw didn’t seem particularly thrilled to see me either. I knew right away this was one of those arranged marriages, and already it wasn’t working.
“Have I ever steered you wrong, dude?” asked John.
“Not until now,” I told him.
It took me a while to warm up to Charles. Like I said, I didn’t trust dopers, reformed or otherwise. We finally ended up having a long phone conversation the day before I headed back to the States. I’d been undercover a year longer than him, but a lot had happened up there in the High Desert. Those boys were crazy, and Psycho, the Victorville P, let his inmates run wild.
Charles had stories to tell.
We talked about “Twist” Foreman, the asshole who’d shot Little Jimmy in the back during that home invasion in Lucerne Valley and how Charles was moving significant quantities of marijuana for Psycho. Just before coming to Hawaii, in fact, he’d bought fifty pounds of it on the P’s dime.
By the time we were done talking I decided I actually liked that CI. And I have to admit it felt pretty good having someone in similar shoes, sharing an experience only a handful of people will ever know.
But I still didn’t trust him.
The next day I was at the airport, and my perfectly miserable Hawaiian vacation ended as it began. As I stood in line with other Vagos waiting to fly off the island, I met a businessman who wanted to get home worse than I did. So I told the gate attendant I was willing to switch to the next flight. She took one look at my paperwork, then said something that nearly buckled my knees.
“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t help you. This ticket was bought at a government rate.”
Ho-lee shit.
“Let me see that,” said a Vagos national officer behind me.
I handed him the ticket and pulled the starter cord on my brain.
“Where’d you get this?” he wanted to know, trying to figure out what he was looking at.
Hard to believe, but the first thing that popped out of my mouth was, “ATF bought it for me.”
I don’t know where the fuck that came from. I just blurted it out. But I have to tell you, man, that comeback saved my ass. All those Vagos started laughing, which bought me just enough time to scramble out of that mess.
“Got an uncle in the military who gets that discount for me. Couldn’t fly without it.”
Thank God those brutes weren’t rocket scientists. Still chuckling, the Vago handed back the ticket and I got on that plane and settled into my government-discounted seat as fast as I could. I’m not sure if it was the remnants of shellfish poisoning or that near fiasco at the gate, but my guts were on spin cycle. I checked the seat pocket in front of me for a barf bag . . . just in case.
When I returned from Hawaii I learned Buckshot was near the end of his road, dying of cancer. This wasn’t a surprise; for months the poor bastard had looked like death warmed over. But as he was exiting Green Nation that ol’ Vago left me a parting gift, recommending that I replace him as the Hemet chapter’s secretary-treasurer. With my business experience it was a good fit . . . especially for the ATF. Now I had access to the chapter’s books, and that made Special Agent Carr a happy handler.
Before he dropped out of the club, Buckshot warned that Big Roy’s hand would be in the strongbox on a regular basis and that he’d never pay back a dime of what he borrowed. The chapter’s books would get wiped clean three times while I was treasurer. Each time the bank was empty, Roy would badger members to get their dues paid up. For a patch hold
er that added up to eighty bucks a month. With twenty members in the chapter, as much as sixteen hundred dollars was going into the strongbox every thirty days. Far as I could tell, Big Roy built his new, custom chopper without a word of thanks to the schmucks who paid for his parts. And you know what? That was cool with me. I wasn’t saying nothin’ to no one. Who was I but a lowly treasurer, and he the mighty P?
On the flip side of the hyphen I was also the chapter’s secretary. Go figure. Me, the guy who couldn’t read or write in high school, was now a secretary. Once a month every Vagos secretary, maybe twenty to thirty guys, would gather in a Fontana restaurant to hear Ta Ta hand down the latest commandments from God of the High Desert. Charles was Victorville’s secretary-treasurer at the time, so we’d sit together at those boring-ass meetings, just a couple of federal informants kicking back and recording whatever leadership decreed, including where runs were headed and any snitch alerts.
As Ta Ta was droning on, Charles gave me a kick under the table and leaned closer.
“Did you hear that?” he said under his breath.
“No. What?”
“We’re looking for an informant with the initials JR.”
I sat up straight and was mentally sorting through the possibilities when I suddenly realized they got the first initial wrong. I believed it then and I still believe it now. Those two letters were close enough to GR to shrivel my sphincter to the size of a BB . . . and how anyone could get that close I haven’t a fuckin’ clue.
So now I’m swallowing hard and Charles is nervous because, since returning from Hawaii, he’s been seen hanging around a lot with this guy GR. I called Big Roy on the ride back to Hemet and shared the initials with him, which he relayed to the membership at our next Wednesday-night social.
Right away Slinger said, “I knew it wasn’t anyone in this chapter.”
He had plenty of patches agreeing until Roy threw a wet blanket.
“Tramp still thinks there’s a cop or informant in this chapter, so let’s not congratulate ourselves just yet,” he told the boys. “He wants all of you to submit new paperwork and photographs for background checks. We’ll be taking pictures after church. It’s all going back to national. Everyone’s being reinvestigated.”
I couldn’t count the number of “fuuuck”s I heard. I added one of my own.
“And one more thing,” Roy cut in. “We need someone to videotape when we make the run to Warner Springs. Tramp’s looking to identify anyone who doesn’t fit in. Anybody have a camera and want to volunteer?”
I raised my hand immediately.
Warner Springs in San Diego County is an area of scrub pine and chaparral tucked between Mount Palomar to the west and Anza-Borrego Desert State Park to the east. At the turn of the century the place was a stage coach stop, but in the years since it has become a resort area known for its hot springs. On the outlying acreage were the cheap seats—a campground with RV hookups, a country store and a bar, perfect for a bunch of saddle-sore outlaws looking to party hearty at the end of a long run.
I packed my things, including a video camera on loan from the United States government, climbed into the truck with Jenna and hit the road hauling our fifth wheel to Warner Springs, leaving Old Joe behind to watch little Sierra. By now my fiancée had become a true VOL, fully embracing Green Nation and the outlaw lifestyle. Jenna had made friends with most of the Hemet patches and their old ladies, sported a Property of George jacket and went to bed wearing black VOL pajamas with green stripes down the legs.
We arrived at the campground to find the party already in full gear. I grabbed the camera and immediately headed out to do some videotaping. Here was a golden opportunity, courtesy of Terry the Tramp, to put names to some faces the ATF had never identified as gang members before, especially those Northern California boys who were mostly anonymous to law enforcement. While a prospect worked the camera, I shook hands and collected names. Hey, thanks for the ID, brother. The ATF might be in touch later.
As I’m glad-handing my way through the crowd, the sound of catcalls and whistles grabbed my attention. A young girl, no more than thirteen years old, was passing a group of shitfaced Hemet boys on her way to the general store.
“Hey, sweet thing! Come here and gimme some!” shouted one moron.
“Oh, baby, I could fuck you up the ass right here, right now!” yelled another.
And it only got raunchier. The terrified kid put her head down and kept walking into the store.
As I turned away, I spotted a familiar face. Bubba was coming my way with a beer in his hand and a big grin. I took the camera from the prospect and shooed him away.
“Still alive, huh?” said Bubba, watching the prospect walk off.
“Still breathing, man. Aren’t you worried being seen with me?”
“Should I be?”
He slapped my back and turned to study the pride of Green Nation mingling across the campground, smoking their weed, getting drunk and raising hell.
“So how you making it, brother?” Bubba asked.
“Doin’ okay,” I told him, lighting another cigarette.
“What’s it been now? Two years?”
“Closer to two and a half.”
“Long time.”
“Sometimes it feels longer.”
“Try doing it as many years as I have, young man,” Bubba grinned, then took a long pull on his bottle. “Must be getting close to the end, though. These cases usually don’t go beyond two or three years.”
“Well, I’m ready whenever the fuck they are.”
“Are you?” Bubba said cryptically, then nodded toward the Vagos. “It’s not so easy for some people, brother. I’ll bet you’re friendly with some of those boys. But when the takedown happens, a lot of the guys you think are cool are gonna go down. That’s always the tough part. Taking down your buddies.”
As Bubba spoke I was scanning the campground, picking out the faces I’d hate to see busted. Like JB over there. I liked that dude. Slinger and Ready were cool too. I hated to think of them getting caught up in the net when the feds hauled it in. Then there was Blackie, 37, and JJ—forever brothers who were no longer full of the same piss and vinegar as in the early days. Those old-timers were just hanging out, smoking weed and laughing at the world going by.
I knew what Bubba meant. As much as I’d enjoy seeing assholes like Big Roy and Todd bite the dust, at the end of Operation 22 Green there was bound to be collateral damage. Both friend and foe would crash and burn together.
“You just have to remember who you work for,” Bubba was telling me. “And sometimes that’s not so easy. Guys lose themselves. I’ve known undercover cops who infiltrated and had that problem.”
Bubba glanced over at me and took a swig of beer, looking for a reaction.
“Like I told John. I know why I’m doing this. I know who I am.”
The big man saluted me with his bottle just as a shrill whistle sounded from across the campground.
“Hey, prospect!”
37 was hailing me. No doubt that graybeard was out to bust my balls again.
“Not anymore, brother!” I shouted back at him. “Fuck your tampons, and fuck that fuckin’ song!”
The old Vago grinned and waved me over to where he, JJ and Blackie were passing a joint.
“Better go see what he wants,” said Bubba. “I’ll see you ’round.”
Blackie offered me a hit as I joined the group, but I waved it off.
“We could use more weed, George,” said 37. “Can you fix us up?”
“Sure. How much you need?”
Jenna had bud for sale. My fiancée had become the de facto pill and weed supplier for the Hemet chapter. As it turned out, though, the forever brothers had no interest in buying pot. Those stoned fools were merely buying time, grinning and winking at each other like grade-schoolers dying to share a secret.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
37 tugged at his belt and nodded me toward Blackie. When I turned, B
lackie was removing the silver Loki buckle—the beauty handed down through the years from one Vago to the next.
The belt slipped from his waist, and Blackie held it out to me.
“I know you’ve had your eye on this for a while, brother. I’ve been around for a long time, and if anyone deserves this buckle, it’s you.”
“Seriously?”
“I want you to have it,” insisted Blackie. “Just make sure the belt comes back.”
I swapped out my own belt so he could hold his pants up, then dug a new hole in Blackie’s with a pocket knife and strapped it on. Did I maybe feel a pang of guilt taking that old-timer’s prized possession? Me, an informant for the feds? Sure . . . a little, I guess. But not enough to give it back. No way, jack. That buckle was fuckin’ cool.
Blackie’s belt buckle.
Maybe a half hour later, the uncle of the young girl that had been harassed by the Hemet boys came charging down in his vehicle. From the moment he jumped from his car the man was giving the Vagos an earful, demanding to know who was in charge of the savages that had accosted his niece.
“Who the fuck you yelling at, motherfucker?” barked Roy as he stepped forward.
“You, if you’re one of the jackasses that told my niece you wanted to fuck her.”
Big Roy threw a punch and the rest of the Vagos pounced. Todd was stomping away along with Mickey, Charlie and a few others. It was the usual outlaw gangbang: brutal, overwhelming and unfair. The battered uncle tried to escape, scampering on hands and knees up a small hill, but the Vagos knocked him back down again. The man finally broke free of the frenzy, made it to his car and took off like a wildman. He nearly ran down a few Vagos on the way out. They were goddamn animals, he probably figured. The bastards deserved to be roadkill.
A while later, an older dude, maybe early sixties, showed up on a motorcycle and told the Vagos it wasn’t right for them to come in, take over the campground and start beating people up.
So they beat him up too.
Later John Carr tracked down the uncle who’d been stomped defending his niece. John told him there was a witness to the assault, and that he could have the Vagos prosecuted for it. The uncle was grateful and might have pressed charges if he hadn’t gotten shitfaced a few months later and driven the wrong direction on the freeway.