Jerry Langton Three-Book Bundle

by Jerry Langton

  Lapierre, who was in no mood to be harassed by cops when he was trying to make an impression of strength and security to the Wild Ones, turned to them and began to tell them off. He didn’t get many words out before one of the men drew a large pistol and shot him in the shoulder. The other assassin pulled out a sawed-off shotgun and started pumping shells into the booth. Instinctively, Stadnick slid under the table. His friends weren’t as smart or as lucky. The assassins sprayed bullets and shells into the wooden booth until they were sure all the men were dead, then fled. Under the splinters, shards of upholstery, broken glass and the shredded corpse of Mousseau, who had been sitting beside him, Stadnick moved. He was surprised that he was still alive. When the smoke cleared, Mousseau and Brochu were dead on the scene. Davies was lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood and died in an area hospital a few days later. Lapierre and Coulombe suffered life-threatening injuries, but eventually recovered most of their abilities. Stadnick suffered minor injuries, when what may have been wood splinters or bone chips grazed his face. Rather than wait around for the cops, he jumped on his bike and rode home.

  On the way back to Hamilton, the astute Stadnick put together an accurate re-creation of what had happened at the bar. One of the Wild Ones who knew about his plan but didn’t join him, had gone to the Satan’s Choice and told them what was happening. Informing on your peers is usually frowned upon in the criminal world, but with bikers, it can get you a promotion. The top guys in Satan’s Choice then told their higher-ups in the U.S.-based Outlaws. Not wanting to allow their bitter rivals in the Hells Angels a toehold in the lucrative Ontario market, the Outlaws decided to put a stop to Stadnick’s plan. They hired two non-biker hitmen (one from Detroit, the other from Miami) because they thought their clean-cut appearance would make them less conspicuous and harder to track. They were right on both counts; the killers were never found.

  When he returned, Stadnick met with the Wild Ones he thought he could trust and told them to stay cool. They didn’t have the manpower to take on the Satan’s Choice in an outright war, so the best they could do was lie low, and hope that the whole mess would blow over or another gang—maybe the Red Devils or even the Hells Angels—would be open to a strategic alliance. But the problem didn’t go away and nobody came to the Wild Ones’ rescue. The slaughter continued a week later. One of the remaining Wild Ones woke up and couldn’t find any coffee in his Hamilton mountain townhouse. He and his stripper girlfriend had been drinking pretty heavily and his hangover gave him a crying need for a good old greasy breakfast. Too sick to walk the three blocks, he left his sleeping girlfriend behind and grabbed the car keys. The old Firebird didn’t always start right away and he was low on gas, but his head was pounding and his joints ached something awful. He got in, pulled on his seatbelt, turned the key and was blown to bits. The explosion and fire were so intense that when his girlfriend called the fire department she told them that her boyfriend had been murdered. Less than a week later, another car bomb tore off a Wild One’s right leg, ending his career as a biker. In a friend’s garage, two surviving Wild Ones, Derek Thistlewaite and Peter Michael Urech, built a bomb they were intending to use to intimidate a rape victim into not testifying at a fellow biker’s trial. A combination of limited intellect, inexperience, volatile chemicals and a few beers resulted in the garage being blown to bits and the would-be bombers obliterated.

  With that last pathetic blunder, the Wild Ones ceased to exist. Those who weren’t dead were permanently disabled, scared off or absorbed by other gangs. Except for one. Stadnick, who somehow managed to escape the slaughter that he instigated unscathed, kept riding around Hamilton. He had no gang, few friends and little to do but wait. He knew he would either die or succeed, but he would do it as a biker. Ever since his trip to Montreal, he was focused on joining the Hells Angels, an organization he knew was far more powerful than the Satan’s Choice, or even their American masters the Outlaws, could ever hope to be. While the surviving Wild Ones had given up and gone straight, Stadnick held out. According to Hamilton biker cop Sergeant John Harris, who followed Stadnick’s career very closely, “I think Stadnick thought ‘this will never happen to me, I’m too smart for this—the ones we’re losing now are the careless ones.’”

  Chapter 4

  There are lots of guys like Vincent in Montreal. He’s about 6 feet tall, but looks as if he weighs no more than 100 pounds. You can get a good idea of how old he is by the deep lines on his face around his goatee. And although his hair goes down to his shoulder blades, it’s receding in the front, especially at the temples. His entire wardrobe consists of T-shirts, denim and leather, perfect apparel for his part-time job at an area scrapyard and his less official and more lucrative duties.

  He’s not just willing to talk about his illegal activities, he’s proud of them. He says he made a lot of money smuggling cigarettes into Quebec from the United States. “That business has dried up a little now, though,” he said. “But I have other things on my plate.” The other things, he says, include marketing stolen electronics and car parts and occasionally selling some hash. He also receives a small check from the government, but won’t say why. “I make lots of money,” he said.

  One of the other scrapyard workers said something quickly in French and he and two other guys laughed. Vincent translated. Although he has a French last name and has lived in or around Montreal since the mid-’70s, he was born and raised in Ontario and English is his mother tongue. “I’m rich but I look like a bum because I spend all my money on strippers and hookers,” he said, smiling widely to reveal a missing incisor. “What can I say? I have an addiction to the ladies.” Then he explained how using prostitutes made much more sense than conventional dating because they didn’t discriminate based on looks or income and they don’t waste your time with anything other than sex. “The best part is that you can tell them to leave when you’re done with them,” he said proudly. “Try doing that with your girlfriend or your wife.” Encouraged by his own logic, he then explained how cigarette smuggling and the sale of someone else’s electronics and car parts were, to him, victimless crimes. “The only people who lose out are the tax collector, rich people who can afford it and insurance companies,” he said. “I just provide normal people with things they couldn’t afford by taking them away from the people who make them so expensive in the first place.”

  His delusions of being a modern-day Robin Hood aside, Vincent is a pretty popular and important person in his community, where many people share his philosophy. He operates in a world in which the government is a distant and foreign entity that exists simply to be bilked. Laws are arcane rules of a game he’d rather not play. “Rich people just make laws to keep normal people from getting ahead,” he said. Instead, the normal people in his world make money by breaking the law so that they can pursue items and activities that are also illegal. It’s a life that frequently takes him into the bars and clubs of Montreal and into contact with the Hells Angels. It’s how he got to know Walter Stadnick.

  “He’s a hell of a guy—people don’t usually just show up and join the Hells Angels,” said Vincent. “But he did, and he didn’t even speak a word of French.” Although it’s often repeated in Montreal that Stadnick just appeared one day at the club’s Sorel headquarters, knocked on the door and talked his way into membership, it’s not exactly true. In fact, he had been in irregular contact with the Sorel chapter since his ill-fated attempt to make a pact between them and the Wild Ones in the fall of 1978. By the time the Wild Ones had become extinct, his was a fairly familiar face at parties and other Hells Angels events.

  And the Hells Angels gained even more of his trust by not forgetting what happened at Le Tourbillon in October. Telling him that revenge would be sweet, the Montreal Hells Angels intensified their war against the Outlaws, mainly by taking the muzzle off Apache Trudeau. Less than a month after the hitmen destroyed the Wild Ones-Hells Angels summit, Trudeau went to the west end and knocked on the door of former Outlaws pres
ident Brian Powers. Suspecting nothing, Powers opened the door and took nine bullets in the head before he hit the ground.

  Every Quebec and many Ontario Outlaws turned out at Powers’s funeral. Their numbers were swollen as two Toronto-based gangs—the Vagabonds and the Para-Dice Riders—appeared to show their respects and impress upon the Hells Angels that Ontario was still the exclusive territory of the Outlaws and their friends.

  It didn’t impress Trudeau. A few weeks later, on December 8, Trudeau went back to the west end and saw someone he thought he recognized as an Outlaw. Casually, he asked the stranger—a non-biker named William Weichold—if his name was “Roxy.” Before Weichold could answer, Trudeau shot him in the head. He later told police that he couldn’t stop laughing when he read about his mistake in Le Devoir.

  He laughed again on March 29, 1979. When Roland “Roxy” Dutemple turned the key in his Camaro that morning, it exploded and he was incinerated. According to informants, it was Dutemple who told the Outlaws’ assassins where Stadnick’s meeting was taking place. Trudeau had finally gotten the right guy.

  The man was on a roll. After a rumor surfaced that the Huns, a non-affiliated suburban Montreal gang, were interested in patching over to (merging with) the Outlaws, Trudeau took action. Five days after he killed Dutemple, Trudeau found prey closer to home. In the Laval neighborhood of Faberville, he walked up to the home of Robert Labelle. Through the front window, he saw the 25-year-old former president of the Huns. Labelle had quit the post to devote more time to his import-export business, which acted as a cover for a large-scale drug trafficking operation. Trudeau rang the bell, Labelle answered and Trudeau shot him in the head. Whether the rumor was real or not, the merger never happened.

  Although Trudeau was leaving a trail of Outlaw and Outlaw-sympathizer bodies, he had yet to murder an underworld heavyweight. That changed on Tuesday, May 9. Donald McLean was, physically and intellectually, a big man among the Outlaws. Although he held no official rank, he was considered a rising star and a future president by many. And he didn’t exactly hide his status. One of the most highly decorated Outlaws, he wore his colors when others considered it unsafe and he rode a motorcycle that drew attention from blocks away. His customized 1963 Flathead was louder than thunder and was flashily customized with tons of chrome and airbrush art. With his 22-year-old girlfriend Carmen Piché on the back, McLean kicked the starter and the couple were blown to bits. The ignition was hooked up to a bomb made and planted by Trudeau and fellow Hells Angels Yves “Le Boss” Buteau and Jean-Pierre “Matt le Crosseur” Mathieu.

  Although he was almost completely lacking in French language skills and none of the Canadian Hells Angels could boast better than rudimentary English, Walter Stadnick proved popular and was made a prospect without having to go through the hangaround process. His time as a prospect was also made much easier than most as he was allowed to continue living in Hamilton and he only had to attend club meetings and functions when he could. “The guys from Sorel really liked Wally right away,” said Vincent. “He was small but very tough and he had lots of ideas; he seemed a lot smarter than most of the guys they had hanging around.”

  He was even allowed to bring along a friend from Hamilton, another former Wild One. Noel “Frenchy” Mailloux earned his nickname in his overwhelmingly English-speaking home town with his ability to speak French. When he and Stadnick went to Montreal, he acted as an interpreter when necessary. “Noel was always around and Wally was able to speak through him,” Vincent said.

  Although his personal charm and bravado shouldn’t be underestimated, Stadnick had the good luck to show up exactly when the Hells Angels needed more members, especially smart and ambitious ones.

  The late ’70s saw the Hells Angels in the United States again experience a significant change. In 1973, Sonny Barger went to prison for possession of heroin and marijuana. When he was released on parole in February 1977, he found a very different world and a larger, more aggressively businesslike Hells Angels. Although use of marijuana and injected drugs like heroin actually declined while Barger was in Folsom, the popularity of ego-enhancing stimulants—particularly cocaine and its country cousin crystal meth—was skyrocketing. As the brotherhood and free-love ideals of the Age of Aquarius were giving way to the narcissism of the Disco Era, the Hells Angels were making huge profits.

  As would happen with any big corporation, an increase in business created a need for more manpower. Luckily for the Hells Angels, there was a new talent pool emerging, many of whom had excellent skills and were highly motivated. Combat veterans from Vietnam were an even better fit for the Hells Angels than previous generations who had seen action in World War II or Korea. Not only were Vietnam Vets more likely to be well-versed in covert and guerilla operations, but they had a deep contempt for a government they felt had betrayed them, as well as no love for a public that had ignored, mocked or reviled their best efforts in Southeast Asia. Bored, disillusioned, misunderstood and unable to readjust to conventional American life, many Vietnam combat vets turned to the Hells Angels and other biker gangs for the brotherhood, excitement and patriotism they felt was missing outside.

  Of course, the explosive expansion of business and membership did not escape the notice of Uncle Sam. In June 1979, the federal government arrested Barger, his wife and most of the Oakland Chapter and charged them with offenses under the Racketeer-Influenced and Corrupt Organizations (RICO) law. Federal prosecutor G. William Hunter told the media: “the cornerstone of this illegal drug enterprise was the manufacture and sale of methamphetamine.”

  It looked like the feds had stacked the deck. RICO had been used against the mafia, Weather Underground, Black Panthers and other groups with the desired effect. Bail for Barger was set at $1 million and the judge appointed was Samuel Conti, who had earned the nickname “Hanging Sam” after doling out some pretty harsh punishments in very high-profile cases. The San Francisco courtroom looked like an armed camp. The proceedings were protected by bulletproof glass and guards with shotguns and submachine guns. Anyone entering the room was checked twice for weapons, and belt buckles larger than two inches wide were confiscated.

  But the case didn’t work out as planned. After eight months and a parade of more than 100 prosecution witnesses, the sides were stalemated. It was clearly established that the members of the Oakland Chapter used and sold all kinds of drugs—Barger himself admitted to selling heroin—and used intimidation and even murder to protect their businesses, but it was not proven that they did so as a group. Since it was the organization that was on trial, not the individuals, Conti, who actually fainted twice from exhaustion during the proceedings, declared a mistrial. Barger’s bail was reassessed at $100,000 and he was freed. Charges against him, his wife and 19 other Hells Angels were dropped less than a week later. A few months later, the 11 remaining members were put on trial again and the jury couldn’t reach a verdict. In February 1981, the government dropped all charges, in effect declaring that the Hells Angels were not a criminal organization, although it clearly does have criminals among its membership.

  RICO, the law that crippled the mafia in the U.S., proved impotent against the Hells Angels. Instead, the feds were punished for their hubris as the bikers emerged as grassroots heroes. “Free Sonny Barger” T-shirts sold well nationwide and Hells Angels membership ballooned.

  As always, things were slightly different in Canada. Although the cocaine market had taken off, the reach and membership of the Hells Angels hadn’t. Canada was not involved in the Vietnam War and the draft dodgers that came north to avoid it weren’t the sort to join or be accepted by the Hells Angels. There were drug-dealing biker gangs all over the country in the early ’80s, but the Hells Angels were limited to Montreal. And, although police estimated that Montreal had a bigger cocaine market than any city in North America other than New York and Los Angeles, the Hells Angels weren’t cashing in. The members of the Laval chapter had no business sense and preferred to snort cocaine and run up immense deb
ts rather than sell it. The Sorel chapter tried its best, but with its membership full of unpolished, inexperienced and often less-than-bright young men, it hardly made a dent in the huge Montreal drug scene.

  It was a perfect time for Stadnick to show up. Smart, likeable, ambitious and tough, he was exactly what the Montreal Hells Angels needed. Even better, as an English speaker from Ontario with, as almost everyone who knows him alleges, wide and successful experience in selling drugs, he had the potential to help the Hells Angels expand into other, more lucrative Canadian markets. On May 26, 1982, not long after he showed up on their doorstep, Stadnick was initiated as a member of the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club Montreal South Chapter.

  From a social standpoint, he didn’t disappoint. “I remember him from those days. He was wild,” said Vincent. “At Sorel’s fifth anniversary party [in December 1982], he out-drank, out-fought and out-partied everyone—Wally was the last man standing.”

  He may have had an immense capacity for alcohol, but unlike many other Montreal Hells Angels, Stadnick didn’t suck the club’s profits up his nose. If Stadnick had felt any temptation to acquire a heavy cocaine habit, he could see examples of why he shouldn’t all around him. Although the Sorel members didn’t have anywhere near the blow problem that their brothers over in Laval had, many members showed signs of overuse—psychosis, random violence and, most prominently, paranoia.

  Stadnick saw it first-hand when he and Mailloux went back home for Christmas in 1982. Because Hamilton’s drug trade was still largely run by Satan’s Choice at the time, it was an Outlaw town and Hells Angels were not welcome. Stadnick was cool. He lay low and kicked back with a few cold ones with friends and family. Mailloux, a heavy coke user, found it harder to settle down. Always known to be a bit suspicious, Mailloux let his paranoia take over his personality. In Hamilton, he was twitchy, nervous and irritable. He carried a .357 Magnum with him wherever he went and he checked every car—even taxis—for explosives before he would enter.