Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle

by Jerry Langton

  “Or die tryin'?”

  “Yeah,” he chuckled. “Or die tryin', just like everyone who comes to America. Can I get you a drink?”

  “I thought you were all business?”

  “This is our business,” Weasel said. “Well, sort of. We don't deal booze because booze is legal, so there is no money in it. We do sell weed—which you may indulge in, in moderation—but prefer to move coke, meth, and heroin. But using any of those will get you a death sentence, and not from an overdose, you understand?”

  Ned, though nervous, did his best not to betray his feelings. “That's the universal rule,” he said. “I have been around, you know.”

  “Yeah, from what I've heard, you've been everywhere,” Weasel said. “But somehow you still come off as an innocent, a real Herbie, like some guy who . . . who . . . I dunno, some guy who's gonna sell me insurance or foreclose on my mortgage or something.”

  Ned just smiled.

  “I guess that's why they want you,” Weasel said in a friendlier tone than Ned had heard in years. “You're like that guy who does the cartoon voices, man, you have a gift.”

  Ned smiled again. “Ah, man, I could sell ice to the Eskimos, sand to the Arabs. . .”

  “. . . and beans to the Mexicans, right?”

  Ned felt a moment of uneasiness, but could scan no malevolence in Weasel's face. “You want beans, man?” he said in his best imitation of a carnival huckster. “I got beans that will blow your mind.”

  Weasel laughed. “Just spread those ribs out on the table, man,” he said. “I'll grab some brews and we can talk business. But first I have to take your picture.”

  * * *

  After the intern had spent the entire trip learning about the ways of the FBI from the veteran, Tovar and Weise started discussing the case in earnest over lunch at a Chik-Fil-A on the west side of Tucson. “While it is true the bike could have changed hands a few times, it's unlikely,” Tovar said. “Something as noticeable as that causes people to talk, especially in small towns.”

  “Yeah, and the timing works out perfectly,” Weise agreed. “If Aiken rode the bike all the way from New York City, he would have arrived at about the same time Lucas acquired it. But why Lucas? Why here?”

  “I have a theory related to both those questions, but I'm not sure they jibe with each other,” Tovar said. “What stands out about Lucas to me is that he's in the air-conditioning business, and Aiken worked for an air-conditioning company in Delaware. My research tells me that Hawkridge and Lucas's company are direct competitors and that there is no love lost between Andersson—Aiken's old boss—and Lucas, but it's too much of a connection not to explore.”

  “And the place?”

  “There's not really a whole lot here for a Midwestern biker on the run from the Sons and the FBI,” he said. “If he was still a member in good standing with the club, any club, I would conjecture that he's here to take advantage of the drug-dealing vacuum created by the arrests of all those Hells Angels.”

  “But no crew would want a snitch, especially an FBI informant,” Weise said. “Is it possible that he could be using an assumed identity?”

  “What, another one?” Tovar laughed. “I'm not sure this guy can handle the two he already has.” Then he turned serious. “These bikers, I know them,” he said. “They may not be all that smart, but they are pretty crafty. And they are absolutely paranoid when it comes to informants . . . there's no way they wouldn't figure out who he was after a while and that would really, really suck for him.”

  Weise smiled. “And the other option, of course, is about an hour's drive south of us.”

  “Maybe a few years ago,” Tovar said. “But Mexico, especially the northern part, is in an all-out war at this point. He'd be safer with the bikers than he would with those people.”

  “Yeah, I know that and you know that,” Weise pointed out. “But does he know that?”

  “If he didn't, then this line of inquiry is at an end,” Tovar said. “If he went down there, his body is probably in a dumpster or chopped up for dog food by now—those guys don't mess around.”

  * * *

  Back in the clubhouse, Weasel explained how the Cossacks work. “It's just like most clubs—you have to have a bike, respect for the patch, and all that,” he said. “We're not fanatics about it like the Hells Angels or the Sons of Satan, but we do respect it.”

  “Understood.”

  “Because of your position, you won't have to wear the patch very often; just on special occasions like funerals and stuff,” he continued. “But you have to have a Harley-Davidson, it's in the bylaws. We can get one to you when we find you a place to live. Don't worry about license, insurance, and all that—we have people.”

  “What about cops?”

  “Mostly untouchable around here, bunch of Dudley Do-Rights, but we have a fixer at central processing who can take care of minor shit,” Weasel said with apparent pride. “Best rule of thumb for you would be to avoid getting into trouble in the first place—your role is as a talker, so don't carry any shit on you at all, ever, stay out of fights, drive the speed limit, don't drink and drive, and stay away from women who could be trouble.”

  “And if I do get arrested?”

  “We don't know each other,” Weasel said with some gravity. “That's why you are forbidden to get a Cossacks tattoo. See, unlike the Hells and the Sons, we sell our logo to anyone who wants it. If you go down and they find any Cossacks stuff in your shit, then all we have to say is that you're just another wannabe. If they find a phone with my number in it, I'll say you're stalking me because you want to join and I won't let you, got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “We'll have you set up by tomorrow night,” Weasel's tone turned warmer. “Nice place, used to be a store, but it's fixed up pretty trendy. You're from back east, you'll love it.”

  “And the bike?”

  “Well, the bylaw says you have to have a Harley, but they don't say that it has to be new or all that good,” he said. “There's a 1999 Sportster we can have for you. It's nothing special—traditional 883 engine, pure stock, black paint, nothing added other than one of those little plastic windshields.”

  “Sounds fine.” Ned was beginning to think that the little bike could have potential if he was going to stay in the area for any length of time. “Stolen? Should I be worried?”

  “Quite the opposite. It will be all legal under your name, but it's for you to own, not ride—except on the same occasions where you'd wear a patch,” Weasel instructed. “Mostly, you'll be driving. Since you're supposed be a relatively successful bar and fast-food manager, you have to have a pretty nice ride—it's a Jaguar X-Type, a 2006 I think. Rare for these parts, but doesn't really get much attention from the doughnut gang.”

  “Not bad at all,” Ned said, with memories of his Kia, his Tempo, and his Subaru quickly fading.

  The pair ran through the details of the job a couple more times until Weasel was satisfied Ned knew exactly what was expected of him. Then he showed him the backroom with a cot where Ned was expected to sleep the night and where he would shower in the morning.

  Back in the clubhouse's main room, the two talked about the differences between Arizona, the Midwest, and the East Coast, and Weasel told Ned about some of the characters he'd meet on the Tucson streets. He told him that Scruffy, despite his appearance, was always to be treated well, and that Stew Bob was all talk and not a threat. They talked into the night until Weasel said he had to get back to his wife and kids. Before he left, he asked Ned for all of his identification. Ned handed him Ian Wuerth's wallet. “No, not that,” he said. “Your real stuff.” Ned gave him the Eric Steadman identification that the FBI had given him. “That's better,” Weasel said.

  Ned slept fitfully that night on the cot, wondering if Gibby and Stew Bob were still in the building with him and if the Cossacks were smart enough to figure out who he really was.

  * * *

  Part of Tovar's job in Tuscon was to liaise wit
h local law enforcement. According to them, the area had long been a transit point for drugs moving elsewhere in the western United States and Canada, most of them being distributed through crime organizations in Denver, which acted as a regional hub for all kinds of gangs from the Salvadoran MS-13, the Los Angeles–based Crips, and the Sicilian Cosa Nostra. Even the Russians, Chinese, and Vietnamese had major operations there.

  Tovar and Weise later agreed that law enforcement in southeastern Arizona were stretched to their financial, personnel, and constitutional limits, and that they were more than happy to see that the big players were someone else's problem.

  They warned the two FBI officers about entering Mexico, but said that there was little violence in their own area, despite the all-out war just on the other side. As far as local trafficking was concerned, it had long been in the hands of the Hells Angels, but since the ATF had severely crippled them, their network had fallen apart.

  When Tovar asked who was dealing on the streets, the top gangs officer, Detective Frank Ojeda, shrugged. “It's a hodgepodge right now, it's almost like there's a vacuum,” he said. “It makes me think someone is going to come in and reap the benefits of the Hells Angels' old infrastructure and contacts.”

  “So there are no existing gangs in the area?”

  “Yeah, but they are all Mexican,” said Ojeda. “And that limits who they can sell to around here.”

  “What about bikers?” Weise asked. “Other than the Hells Angels.”

  “We have one chapter of the Cossacks,” Ojeda said. “But they're all Mexican too, so they generally just sell to other Mexicans—small time, to be sure, but worth keeping an eye on. I think they help transport significant amounts north, especially now the Hells Angels are out of the way.”

  “So you're kind of waiting this out,” Tovar asked. “Seeing who pounces? Like the Bandidos or Vagos or whoever?”

  “Kind of,” Ojeda told him. “You want to know more? Just talk to Rasmussen over at the ATF.”

  * * *

  When Weasel, Speedy, and two other Mexican-looking bikers showed up the following afternoon, Ned had been waiting nervously, pecking at leftover barbecue. He'd watched the news on TV all day and was fascinated by the fact that a mass grave had been found in Mexico. It wasn't in Sonora, so it was unlikely that anyone he knew was involved, but it was Mexico, and it was people in his business. According to CNN, an informant had told the military that he and another man had disposed of some bodies in an old silver mine shaft in the state of Durango, which Ned knew was deep in the Sinaloa Cartel's territory. The authorities went down the shaft to recover the bodies, but they found out that they were on top of other bodies, which were on top of even more bodies. By noon, they had recovered thirty-five. By the time the Cossacks showed up a little after two, the number had grown to seventy-one, but they couldn't be sure because some were just parts.

  Speedy saw what Ned was watching. “Those your guys?” he asked.

  It took Ned a moment to realize what was going on. “Uh, no, no, that was way down in Durango,” he said.

  “Hmmm, looks like the work of the Zetas,” said Weasel. “Not only is it their way of doing business, but Durango is in the Sinaloa Cartel's backyard—body dumps are always on your enemy's turf.”

  “Zetas?”

  “Jeez, man, I thought you were the guy who was down there,” said Weasel derisively. “Los Zetas, c'mon man, they were a bunch of soldiers who received special training—y'know, like urban warfare and all that—from you guys and the Israelis and the Brits.”

  “And they fight the cartels?”

  “They did, but not for long. The Gulf Cartel offered them more money and they switched sides. They used to work for the Gulf Cartel against the other cartels,” Weasel said. “Until they got bigger than the Gulf Cartel and now they are their own cartel who fights everyone.”

  “What?”

  Weasel sighed. “I can't believe you don't know this: your people trained the Zetas, then told them to go back to their $200-a-week jobs in the army and the cartels offer them more than $1,000 a week for the same work,” he said. “You'd make the same choice, just like La Linea up in Juarez and a whole bunch of others in other places. It's plata o plomo.”

  “Plata o plomo?”

  “Yeah, silver or lead, man,” Weasel smiled. “Silver as in getting paid or lead as in a bullet to the brain—you work with us and be rewarded, or you work against us and die. It's not a difficult choice for most people.”

  “Makes sense,” said Ned. “We have bad cops, too.”

  Speedy looked intensely offended. “No, no, no, you don't understand. Here you have a hundred cops—one takes bribes, one breaks heads because he enjoys it, but the other ninety-eight do their jobs more or less cleanly,” he said. “But in Mexico, of one hundred cops, one hundred take bribes and one hundred bust heads. Everyone is on the take—mayors, governors. I wouldn't even be surprised if Calderón himself gets a paper bag from El Chapo every week.”

  Obviously trying to change the subject, Weasel indicated the report on TV. “Up to seventy-one?” he said. “That's just one short of the record.”

  “But those were whole bodies, not just parts,” said one of the guys Ned didn't know. “The body count on the farm in Tamaulipas was up around a hundred before they started putting all the parts together . . . then it fell to seventy-two.”

  “He's right,” said Speedy. “Once they start putting them together like Lego, the count starts to fall. I give this one maybe fifty-four, fifty-five.”

  “Body counts? The farm?” Ned asked. “What are you guys talking about?”

  One of the guys Ned didn't know laughed. “It's funny, I'd say ironic if I was sure I knew exactly what that meant,” he said. “You were living in Mexico and had no idea what was going on down there and we're up here—safe from all the lunacy—and we know everything.”

  Weasel gave him a serious look. “He didn't know because they don't report that shit down there,” he said. “If they do, they kill the reporter.”

  Speedy laughed. “Kind of makes you appreciate how lucky we Americans have it,” he said, looking at Ned. “And how bad those Mexicans have it.”

  “So this sort of thing happens all the time?” Ned asked, incredulous.

  “Yep, get used to it, man,” Weasel said. “You're in America now, so you can learn the truth about Mexico—you know that more than 50,000 people have been murdered in the Mexican drug war in less than five years? Don't say yes, because I know you didn't. You would never have gone down there if you did.”

  “So why don't they kill the American reporters?”

  “Some of the guys down there, they keep their organizations together and motivated by telling them that they are ‘freedom fighters' working to bring down the oppressive government—they think the American reporters will help their cause,” said Weasel. “But it's all a scam, they're just drug dealers; but they have to keep the illusion alive for a steady stream of new recruits.”

  “So do you get that kind of violence here?”

  “Nope, stops at the border,” said Weasel. “The cartel guys might be deluded, but they're not stupid—that's a fight they'd rather not pick.”

  “Sometimes a dealer will get popped for not paying his debts,” said Speedy. “Or for cooperating with the Federales.”

  “But that's rare,” said Weasel. “Generally the cartels just want to sell up here. Any violence would just get in the way of that. It's all about the Benjamins.”

  Ned knew he looked relieved and he had that feeling of delayed panic one feels after realizing the danger they had previously been in. “Let's get us some,” he said in a tone he hoped would be interpreted as enthusiastic. “When do I start?”

  “That's what I like to hear,” said Weasel. “We're actually here to take you to your new place—the Sportster and the Jaguar should be there already.”

  “New ID?”

  “Yeah, remember the pictures I took last night?” he said. “I had our g
uy insert them into a driver's license, passport, and a couple of other cards—should be done today.”

  “How good are they?”

  “Perfect, they're real.” Weasel looked a touch offended. “Just the picture's changed. I wouldn't use the passport at an airport, though.”

  “Real?”

  “Yeah,” said Speedy. “We know a guy who had an ‘unfortunate accident' and they never found his body.”

  “Came from back east, didn't have a family, didn't have any friends other than us, so nobody is asking any questions,” Weasel added. “You are kind of taking over his place. Everything works, from his credit cards—you may want to call them and tell them you forgot your PIN—to his license and registration, even his life insurance.”

  They discussed more of the logistics of Ned's new job before piling into Weasel's giant Chevy Tahoe SUV. They drove through downtown Tucson to an old store on North Meyer Avenue. The giant windows up front that had previously shown small appliances and electronics were now blinded by southwestern-motif drapes. Inside it was decorated fairly well. It suited the life of a single man with some money and few responsibilities. Ned thought it could be quite pleasant once he added some of his own things.

  Weasel showed him around. In the bedroom, he produced a key ring from his pocket and unlocked a gun locker under the bed. Inside were two handguns and two rifles. “These are registered to you, so be careful,”

  Back in the living room, Speedy and the guy whose name Ned didn't know were sitting down. “Aren't you gonna offer us a beer?” Speedy asked.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Ned answered. “I'll see what's in the fridge.”

  “He's just joking, man, said Weasel. “We gotta go—don't you go anywhere until the kid gets here, Seriously. You get stopped by a cop and you're done, man.” He left the key ring he used to open the gun locker on Ned's coffee table.