Jerry Langton Three-Book Bundle

by Jerry Langton

  Jerry Langton Three-Book Bundle

  Showdown, Fallen Angel and Gangland

  Jerry Langton

  CONTENTS

  Showdown

  Fallen Angel

  Gangland

  About the Publisher

  Showdown

  How the Outlaws, Hells Angels and Cops Fought for Control of the Streets

  Jerry Langton

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1 - Death of a Godfather

  Chapter 2 - The Reincarnation of Satan’s Choice

  Chapter 3 - “God Forgives, Outlaws Don’t”

  Chapter 4 - Mayhem in Montreal

  Chapter 5 - Where Jimmy Lewis Died

  Chapter 6 - Open Season on Hamilton Bikers

  Chapter 7 - The Choice-Angels Alliance

  Chapter 8 - The Rock Machine Targets Ontario

  Chapter 9 - The U.S. Bandidos Make Their Move

  Chapter 10 - Project Retire Clubs the Outlaws

  Chapter 11 - Victory for Mario “The Wop” Parente

  Chapter 12 - Trouble on the Horizon

  Chapter 13 - Bloodbath at 32196 Aberdeen Line

  Chapter 14 - Mongols, Mexicans and B.C. Bud

  Chapter 15 - “I did not have anything to do with the murder ...”

  Chapter 16 - Dead, in Prison or On the Run

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  Introduction

  “I’m really sorry I have to miss our ball game tonight,” I told my nine-year-old son. “I have to take a biker out to dinner.”

  Aware of what I do to make a living, that made perfect sense to him. For as long as my son could remember, his dad had been an author who wrote about crime, particularly bikers. Actually, he thought it was pretty cool. Immediately, he asked me if the biker had ever killed anyone. Yes, I told him, he had.

  So I called up Nick, my assistant coach, to take over the game for me, and made plans to meet one of the most important and influential figures in the history of Canadian outlaw motorcycle gangs.

  It had all started with an e-mail about a week earlier. It read: “I’ve got your next bestseller.”

  Ever since I started writing books, I’ve gotten a lot of e-mails like that, so I was prepared to ignore it. I didn’t recognize the name of the person who sent it, so I was within a second of hitting the delete button when I read further and saw that the person in question was promising to get me in contact with Mario “The Wop” Parente. That really caught my eye.

  If the subject of my first book — super-secretive and incredibly powerful former Hells Angels national president Walter Stadnick — represents the Holy Grail of Canadian bikers from a reporter’s standpoint, Parente is at least the Ark of the Covenant.

  While Stadnick’s Hells Angels were building a coast-to-coast organization that dominated the drug and vice trades from Halifax to Vancouver, they were, for the most part, stopped at the Ontario line.

  While it was well established and common knowledge that Ontario is by far the most lucrative market in Canada for organized crime, Hells Angels just couldn’t make anything substantial happen there for a very long time. After fighting and winning two bloody wars to conquer Quebec’s underworld, leaving hundreds of people — some of them totally innocent, one of them an 11-year-old boy — dead, they swept through B.C., Alberta, Manitoba, Saskatchewan and the Atlantic provinces with relative ease. But, even after that, the mighty Hells Angels couldn’t do a thing in Ontario.

  According to many people on every side of the situation, the main reason was Parente. He grew up in the same place as Stadnick — my own hometown; a decaying former industrial hub called Hamilton, Ontario — and they weren’t very far apart in age. They both became bikers in high school. In fact, they even sort of ran together in the 1970s when Parente was a member of Satan’s Choice, and Stadnick was in charge of a gang called the Wild Ones who worked off and on for the Choice, among others. Stadnick, according to many sources, desperately wanted to become a member of the Choice (or any other major gang), but they wouldn’t have him.

  It wasn’t because he wasn’t a good biker. He was tough and smart and — from what I’ve been told repeatedly — extremely talented at selling drugs. But he had one serious shortcoming in the eyes of Satan’s Choice. He was just five-foot-four. Because of his height, or lack of it, lots of people — bikers, cops, Mafia, media — disrespected him. And they totally underestimated him.

  But few who knew Parente withheld their respect. He’s not really tall, but he’s rock solid. While nobody has ever tracked down a legitimate job held down by Stadnick (and I have spent many hours trying), Parente had worked in construction and welding and regularly served as a bouncer at some of Hamilton’s most notorious bars and strip joints. It was a profession that put him head-to-head with Hamilton’s street toughs and members of such esteemed local organizations as the Ball-Peen Hammer Boys. And he always came out on top.

  The dude was, indeed, hardcore. He’d taken a bullet for the club and had more than once fired one. In a city and a province (and a country for that matter) in which bikers were eclipsing the traditional Italian and Irish Mafias for organized crime supremacy, Parente held considerable sway. And when the Outlaws — the oldest and second-most powerful motorcycle gang in the United States — came north to expand, they spoke with him.

  The Hamilton Chapter of Satan’s Choice became the Outlaws, and Parente was their president. The affiliation with the giant American organization only added to his power.

  And it’s not like Stadnick disappeared, either. Eschewed by the Ontario bikers, he was, ironically, accepted by the more powerful, more established Hells Angels in Quebec. Despite his size and utter lack of French-language skills, he was so well liked by them, that he eventually became the Hells Angels’ national president — a post far above the dreams of the hardscrabble Hamilton bikers who wouldn’t let him into their clubs.

  And he did it, some say, without firing a shot or even throwing a punch. While it’s unlikely that Stadnick rose to such prominence in the world of outlaw bikers completely without violence (and a great deal of evidence contradicts that theory), there is consensus among bikers and cops alike that he was extraordinarily nonviolent for a biker chieftain. He managed to build a Hells Angels empire stretching from Vancouver Island to Halifax with very little bloodshed. And he stayed well under the radar while doing it. Rarely arrested and never convicted of anything worse than a traffic ticket during his reign, he refused to speak to the media and was monosyllabic with the police, never giving them anything they could use against him or anyone else.

  He was a new kind of biker — national president as stoic, secretive, outlaw CEO. Stadnick built the Canadian Hells Angels as a giant corporation with mergers, acquisitions and the occasional hostile takeover. He had strategic alliances, franchises, branch offices and even subsidiaries.

  But he was stopped in Ontario. The Ontario bikers — an uneasy alliance between the Outlaws, the Para-Dice Riders, the Vagabonds, what remained of Satan’s Choice after the Hamilton merger and others — knew Stadnick had his eyes on their province. Not only was it Canada’s richest market for drugs and vice, it was where he was from. Imagine how galling it must have been for him to control a mighty nationwide criminal organization, but not be able to walk the streets of his own hometown without bodyguards. It was so bad for him that, when he was in hospital in Hamilton recovering from severe burns received in a motorcycle accident, Hells Angels actually sought and received police protection for him. Significantly, even though Parente was behind bars at the time, his name came up in a phone conversation between Stadnick’s common-law wife and police.

/>   And that’s how it stood for many years: Hells Angels reigning basically unopposed — after putting down the Rock Machine rebellion in Quebec — throughout Canada. Except Ontario. While the Outlaws stood at the top of a multi-headed monster that ruled that richest and most desirable of provinces.

  But things changed. And years later, I’m taking Parente out for a bite to get his side of the story.

  I make the plans with Luther, the guy who e-mailed me in the first place. He suggests we meet in Burlington. Since they both live east of Hamilton and I’m in downtown Toronto, Luther says they are “meeting me half way.” I tell him I’m looking forward to it. He describes a restaurant located opposite the gas station across from Spencer Smith Park. He can’t remember the name, but his directions are succinct. I know the area well. My wife’s from Burlington, and we were married in a church about three blocks away from the restaurant. I ask how I’ll recognize them. “Well, I’m about six-foot-four ...” says Luther.

  In the days before the meeting, some of my friends joked about how dangerous they thought the whole thing was. I laughed it off, pointing out that Parente would have no reason to want to harm me. But when I got stuck in traffic, I was careful to call Luther to let him know I’d be a couple of minutes late. Certainly wouldn’t want to be rude. Luther laughed and said it’d be fine.

  Some creative highway driving got me there before them. There are actually two restaurants at the place Luther described, but one’s kind of a cafeteria, so I ignored it. I looked inside the better place. I waited out front. Ten minutes passed. I called my brother; he kept me loose. I looked over my shoulder and saw two big, tough-looking guys sitting at a table on the patio outside the cafeteria.

  “Luther?” I asked the huge guy. He shook my hand and grinned. It was a sincere smile. He introduced me to Mario, but called him Mike. I wasn’t surprised. Before the meeting, I called up veteran Hamilton biker cop Sergeant John Harris and asked him about meeting up with Parente. He told me: “If you want to get on his good side, call him Mike; he hates being called Mario.”

  Okay, so he’s Mike. Cool. They complained to me about waiting for a waitress. I pointed out that they could wait all they like, but no waitress would ever come out of the cafeteria. We agreed to go to the nicer restaurant next door.

  We sat. There was silence. I gestured at Parente’s ball cap. “Redskins fan?” I asked him.

  He nodded.

  “Why?” I asked. “Jack Kent Cooke?” It was a strange gambit, but over the years I have met three people from Hamilton who became Washington fans because Cooke, their longtime owner, was a self-made billionaire from their hometown.

  Mario laughed. “Nah, it goes back to John Riggins and those guys.” I noted that the only guy he mentioned was the NFL’s last great white halfback, and that he mispronounced the name Riggins “Reagan.” I told him I’m a Colts fan. He said that’s an easy pick because they always win. I told him that I’ve been a Colts fan for more than 30 years and had seen my share of 1-15 and 2-14 seasons. He commiserated. I was beginning to like him already.

  When he took his hat off, I finally got a good look at Parente. His face kind of looked like Joe Pesci’s, and he gave off a similar but far less unctuous vibe. He had very dark brown eyes that indicated a depth of intelligence. His head was shaved, but he had a thick, short, whitish-gray beard that started at his cheekbones. It was augmented by a longer, thicker Fu Man-chu mustache of the same color. The line of his nose was an elongated S, indicating multiple breakages. I looked closely at both of his eyes, because I had heard he’d been stabbed in one of them, but couldn’t see any permanent damage.

  He talked with his hands like gangsters do in movies. It was very hard not to be charmed by his mixture of wit, bonhomie and strident speech.

  He wasn’t tall, maybe six-foot, but he was clearly strong. He was thick all over. He later told me that was because there’s nothing much else to do in prison aside from lift weights.

  While Parente looked like he’d wandered off The Sopranos lot, Luther appeared as Scottish as his last name indicates (although he later told me he’s of Irish descent). He looked bigger than he said he was and had a great deal of natural muscle. He had long, wavy reddish-brown hair and a more thoughtful face than I normally associate with bikers. Aside from the tattoos, he looked more like people I know in the music business than the bikers I’ve interviewed. He didn’t say much — this was clearly Parente’s show — but enjoyed a laugh and indicated there was a deep backstory to him.

  They were nervous about ordering. I told them not to worry, that an interested TV producer would be paying for dinner. To get the ball rolling, I ordered a pint of Stella Artois, Parente got a Coors Light, Luther, significantly, had a coffee. I ordered bruschetta for the table and a pizza before thinking that it might offend a guy named Mario “The Wop” who’d rather be called Mike.

  He ordered a pizza, too. He flirted a little with the young, plain-looking waitress. Luther claimed not to be hungry, but I insisted. He said he’d have a slice. Confused, the waitress said they only serve whole pizzas. He demurred and said he’d share Parente’s.

  Before we started talking, Parente put his hand on my notebook. Clearly he didn’t want me to write anything down. That was fine with me. I have a great memory.

  For the next four hours, Parente talked. And he was fascinating. A charismatic guy who really knows how to tell a story, he told me what it’s like to be a biker, what it’s like to do time and what it’s like to shoot someone. He told me things I didn’t know about Stadnick and some of the cops, lawyers and bikers I had interviewed. To my surprise, he didn’t dodge a single question, and he told me quite frankly how it felt to kill another man.

  For a reporter, it was a gold mine. I knew he wasn’t going to say anything to incriminate himself or libel anyone else, but I also knew that he’d provide an unprecedented look inside Canadian outlaw biker gangs.

  He asked me what I intended to write. I told him that my thesis was that Stadnick’s Hells Angels were doing everything they could to build a national empire and that the biggest obstacle to moving into Ontario was Parente and his Outlaws, but that politics and law enforcement and other factors had changed all that. He smiled and said that was actually pretty accurate.

  There was a couple at the table next to us. She was about 25 and wearing less than the weather demanded. Parente had already commented on her appearance in frank terms. She was with a neatly dressed, well-coiffed man in his late 50s, maybe 60. It had been obvious that she was listening to our conversation and, now that she’d had a few drinks, she’d finally gathered the courage to talk to us.

  Looking right at Parente, she gestured at her date and said as a curly blonde lock fell between her eyes: “You probably don’t know this, but he’s the best criminal lawyer in Hamilton.”

  Without missing a beat, Parente looked him up and down and asked him: “Oh yeah? What’s your name?”

  The guy, looking and sounding rather pompous, told him.

  Parente chuckled. “I’ve heard of you; but you’re not the best.” Then he returned to our conversation.

  Chapter 1

  Death of a Godfather

  A man lay in a pool of his own blood on a Hamilton sidewalk struggling for breath. It was May 31, 1997. His death was the start of a revolution that decided who was in charge of organized crime in Ontario.

  He wasn’t a Hells Angel or an Outlaw. And he certainly wasn’t a Loner or Para-Dice Rider or anything like that. He wasn’t a biker at all, and neither was the man who killed him.

  No, he was John “Johnny Pops” Papalia. He was the Godfather of the Hamilton Mafia, and the primary source of cocaine and other drugs — as well as a mastermind of prostitution, loan-sharking and other products delivered via organized crime — in Southern Ontario.

  John “Johnny Pops” Papalia

  Born in 1921 to a Calabrian family in Hamilton, Papalia dropped out of school at 13, so he could get into the family business — organize
d crime. His father, Antonio, was one of a close-knit group of Italians in Hamilton that ran liquor into the U.S. during prohibition (the same men smuggled liquor into Canada during its own, earlier era of prohibition). “I grew up in the ’30s, and you’d see a guy who couldn’t read or write but who had a car and was putting food on the table,” Johnny said proudly. “He was a bootlegger, and you looked up to him.” Antonio was also a prime suspect in the assassination of Rocco Perri, Hamilton’s first Godfather.

  John Papalia developed an even more profound mistrust of authority than you’d expect, even from someone who spent their whole life involved in organized crime. It happened when his beloved father was confined at an internment camp during World War II. His crime was being a prominent Italian. Johnny is said to have taken it hard.

  With prohibition long over in both countries and most of the Hamilton Mafia veterans and leaders involuntarily working in Northern Ontario, Johnny did what he could to get by. That generally meant burglaries. He was so successful at it that he started a prosperous fencing operation in an abandoned ice warehouse at the corner of Railway and Mulberry Streets, across the road from where he lived with his mother, Rosie, whose cousins had been involved with Perri’s business. Papalia was not a big man — maybe five-foot-eight and slight — but he had a reputation for extreme violence, and was rarely messed with.

  He was first arrested in 1945 for a burglary, but he didn’t see any real jail time until 1947, when he was caught running an illegal gambling house in his warehouse. Inside, he met a successful Toronto heroin dealer named Harvey Chernick (who, in turn, was being supplied by Sicilian Antonio Sylvestro). In the almost two years they were behind bars together, Chernick taught him the trade and hooked him up with suppliers.