Timmy turned to Rudy and said, “Sorry, prez. Won’t happen again.”
“It better not or you’re gonna have the shortest biker career ever.” Timmy turned away, took two steps, and rolled his shoulders. If he had done it facing Rudy, it would’ve been an obvious challenge. He played it off like he was stretching.
Rudy let it go.
We stood around and bullshitted. The Red Devils mingled with a couple other OMGs, most noticeably the Spartan Riders. Their center patch was a vertically oriented battle ax bisected by a pair of crossed swords on a blood-red background. Looking at that patch, it hit me for a moment that these guys were, for the most part, just as full of it as we were. It’s a simple formula: If you look tough, then you are tough. The posturing—by us, but especially by these so-called “outlaws”—was unbelievable.
A big Spartan by the name of Bruno came up to us with a couple of his boys, each carrying a can of beer. Two women came with them. Old, broken-down women. Everyone had been living too hard for too long.
Bruno had an extremely short buzz cut. His head looked like a giant, lumpy summer gourd. All he wore on his upper body was his cut. He had a jiggly beer gut that parted his vest, and his fat had declared war on his belly button, which had all but disappeared.
It was immediately apparent that he didn’t like any of us.
At one point he turned to Carlos and said, “Homes, what the fuck with your cuts? They’re like brand new.”
Carlos, Pops, Timmy, and I all wore squeaky clean vests. Rudy’s, the genuine article, had been around the block, but ours were fakes and it showed. Carlos thought fast.
“Fucking cunt. This bitch we had trim our shit—you know, we came here for Rudy from other charters—this cunt was like a three-year-old with a pair of garden shears. She cut our old shit up taking the rockers off, so we had to freshen up.”
Bruno didn’t buy it. Cruze did. He said, “Damn, man. A man’s cut is like his skin. What’d you do?”
Carlos ignored Bruno. “What can you do? It is what it is.” He pointed at the IIWII tab on his chest.
Bruno rubbed his belly like it contained his brain. He suggested, “You could’ve fucked her up.”
Carlos said sadly, “Yeah, well we would have. ’Cept it was one of our brothers’ moms.” He gunned the rest of his beer and threw the empty into the dirt.
Cruze put up his hand and said, “It is what it fucking is, I guess.”
Carlos belched. I said, “Yep. It is what it is.”
I asked Rudy if we were going to head over to the Angels’ tent. He said, “Oh, yeah,” like it wasn’t a big deal. He asked Cruze to join us. Bruno said he’d hang back.
We left and drifted down the fairway. It was something. The crowd stared and parted for us like we were royalty.
Fear tickled over the nape of my neck and down my forearms. This was not like the Flamingo in Laughlin. That had been a venue full of nonbikers and cops. This was a crowded event exclusive to bikers and seriously underrepresented by law enforcement. I was scared and I was excited.
We were going to meet the Hells Angels.
Their area was a series of large open-air tents shading them from the sun. There were two large Angel prospects standing guard at the entrance. Cruze walked up and exchanged words with them. Rudy greeted them. They invited us in.
The Allman Brothers crooned from some far-off speaker. On the left was a T-shirt booth. Two young, large-breasted women worked it. Stretched across their tight shirts was the phrase SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL RED AND WHITE. The Angels’ colors were red and white, and this was one of their more common nicknames. The women wore high-cut jean shorts. Neither of them smiled, and both smoked cigarettes.
I pulled out a smoke and lit up.
We passed loitering Angels and their stares. They knew Cruze and the Red Devils, but had never heard of the Solos. They asked out loud, “Who the fuck are these orange motherfuckers?” We didn’t say anything. I tried to look casual, but my insides were knotted up.
We approached the two ranking members at the rear of the last tent.
Cruze said, “Boss.”
The larger one, who weighed upwards of 250 pounds and had a rosy complexion and white hair, bellowed, “Cruze. What’s up?”
“Got some guys want to meet you.”
The smaller one stepped forward. He had a squeaky, impatient voice. His eyes were hollow and distracted. He whined quickly, “Hey.
You’re Rudy, right?”
Rudy stepped forward and extended his hand. “Yeah. You must be Dennis.”
“Yep,” answered Dennis. He jerked his head to the larger one. “This is Turtle.”
“Good to meet you.” Rudy waved at us. “These are my Solo Angeles.” He pronounced our name Ahn-HELL-ess.
Dennis’s head was almost completely encased in a swarm of ratty offblond hair. His beard went to his chest, his ears were covered. His quick voice and worn eyes said it all: meth-head tweaker.
I placed them both from the files we had on convicted Angels. Dennis’s last name was Denbesten, and he was a drug felon recently out of prison. Turtle’s name was Warren Kuntz, and he was a convicted sex offender. Dennis was an Arizona Nomad and close to Smitty.
Dennis squeaked, “Turtle and I are glad to have you. Bad Bob told us you might drop in.” His weary eyes paused on each of us.
Turtle offered hot dogs and beer. Dennis insisted the Angels feed us. “You’re here as guests of Bad Bob,” he said, waving to a prospect standing nearby. He said this in a kinder, gentler tone. I liked Dennis from the start. It was as if, after we’d walked into the cafeteria naked, Dennis had walked up and put his varsity jacket around our shoulders.
A prospect appeared at Turtle’s side, awaiting orders.
Rudy said, “This is my VP, Bird, my sergeant at arms, Carlos, and this is Timmy and that’s Pops, our prospects.”
“We know,” said Dennis. “We’ve heard of all of you.” He smiled.
Rudy barked at Timmy, “I’ll take that hot dog, prospect. Mustard and kraut. You got kraut?”
Turtle smiled. “Yep.”
“Good. Kraut. Don’t forget.”
Turtle told his prospect to go get beers for everyone. He left.
Timmy turned to follow, and I grabbed his arm. “I’ll take mine with equal amounts of mustard and ketchup. Mustard down one side, ketchup down the other. Get it right.”
“Right,” answered Timmy.
Carlos said, “Onions if they got ’em. Otherwise, plain.”
Timmy said, “Right,” and turned again.
Pops didn’t say anything. As a prospect he didn’t have the clout to place an order.
Timmy stalked away angrily. I asked where the john was, and they pointed to some Porta Pottis beyond the blackened, halved oil drum that served as a grill. I caught up with Timmy before he got to the grill, grabbed him, and turned him around. No one else was in earshot. “What the fuck, dude?” I jabbed my finger at the ground.
“Fuck that guy.”
“Shut up and suck it up. What are you, a rookie? You’re a fucking fighter ace. We all know you can kick Rudy’s ass, but if you do it now, the show’s over before it started. Choke this bullshit down and wear your big-boy pants today. Dude, you’re Serpico and Baretta in one. You’re a fucking master. Come on. Play your role.”
He straightened up. “All right, all right. But fuck you, for the record.
I ain’t a step-and-fetch for you, Rudy, or anyone else.” I raised my eyebrows and we parted. I knew it took a lot to piss off Timmy, and if we pushed him far enough he’d have no problem whipping any of our asses.
Back at the tent, Dennis asked me what that was about, and I said I was standing up for my P and for my club, that a prospect couldn’t act angry when he was ordered to do something he didn’t want to do.
Dennis said, “That’s good. Shows your head’s not fucked.”
The Hells Angels prospect came back with an armload of opened beer cans. He passed them out, Turtle nod
ded to him, and he stepped back into a ready position.
Then Timmy came back with four hot dogs. He handed one to Carlos, who dug in. He handed me mine and Rudy his, this time careful not to step between him and Dennis or Turtle. I took a bite. It was juicy and crunchy. There was mustard on one side and ketchup on the other.
“What the fuck is this?!” Rudy barked. He threw the hot dog on the ground and mashed it with his boot. “Motherfuck. You got grease for brains? I said sauerkraut. I repeated sauerkraut, fucknut. Get me another. If you can get this one right, then I’ll bump you up to burgers.”
Timmy spun around and headed back to the grill. I yelled over my shoulder, “You got mine right!”
“Mine too!” added Carlos.
When Timmy gave him his second frank, Rudy held it up and inspected it like it was a model airplane. He nodded. He took one bite and said, “Good job. You and Pops can go get some food now if you want.” Timmy and Pops walked toward the grill.
We ate our lunch and drank our beer and talked about Bad Bob and how happy we were to have received the blessing of the Hells Angels. I said it was an honor I’d never thought I’d know. Dennis said he’d heard good things about me. Rudy said Bad Bob was a good man. Pops and Carlos and Timmy stood back, eating hot dogs and drinking beer. Cruze excused himself. Dennis said Bob wanted to meet us. We spoke generally about Laughlin and the brawl. Then we said we had to get going and thanks for the food and letting us pay our respects. Catching a little break, Turtle asked me to sign a guest banner they had strung across the back of the tent. It read HELLS ANGELS NOMADS and had a five-foot-wide Death Head in the center. The request made me smile and relax. Would an Angel vet like Turtle ask someone he didn’t like or respect to autograph club property? No, he wouldn’t. I signed it “Love and Respect, Bird, Solo Angeles Nomads.”
I felt pretty good as I rejoined the group. That’s when Turtle asked, “Hey, guys, what the fuck with your cuts?”
And that’s when Carlos—with some embellishments from Pops— told them our bullshit story about Cricket’s mom again.
We owed her a roomful of roses.
THE RIDE BACK to Phoenix was a joke. Rudy’s bike took a dump and we paid some guy to haul him, his gal, and his bike home; mine coughed and wheezed and wouldn’t go faster than fifty since, bike genius that I am, I’d only opened the fuel petcock halfway; and Timmy, exhausted and dehydrated, continually wretched the day’s food and drink over his shoulder onto the road. He fought through it, never complaining, but by the time we got back, his right side was covered in dried-up chunks of hot dog.
We regrouped at task force headquarters, a place we called the Pumpkin Patch, or just the Patch, on account of the Solo Angeles pumpkin-orange colors. It was a one-story warehouse in a metro Phoenix industrial park. The surrounding businesses included furniture companies and small software firms. We had an office up front that never had a secretary in it, and behind that, through a nondescript door, was operations. A dozen desks, twice as many computer terminals, a couple offices, a conference room, and a loading bay where we’d end up spending a lot of time tinkering with our lame-ass ATF bikes. An overused kitchenette and bathroom. Posters of pinup girls and a whole wall devoted to my college football career, which the other agents made endless fun of. We had space for a suspect matrix—basically a wall of photos and names—and stations for evidence processing and a safe. Over the course of the following year, the Patch would become the closest thing to home many of us had.
Timmy cleaned up, Slats made coffee, and then we debriefed. Two main things came up. First, we had to put some mileage on our cuts. We took them to the loading area, poured water and beer and handfuls of dirt on them, and ran the van over them. We held them up and they looked fantastic. Mine was a little too dirty for my liking—I like clean, orderly things—but I knew the now worn-looking cut wouldn’t draw any undue attention.
Second was Timmy. He took Slats aside and demanded to be made a full patch Solo on the spot. Slats, chewing a wad of Copenhagen, said no dice. He said in order to come off real, we needed to run him and Pops as prospects for a couple of months. Timmy said if that was the case then he’d end up beating Rudy into the hospital. Slats told him to suck it up, just like I had. Slats said he’d tell Rudy to chill out, that he’d remind him this was a big game. Timmy said that wasn’t good enough. Slats spat on the ground and said too bad.
We broke and went home. Our Phoenix undercover house wasn’t set up yet, so Carlos and I crashed at hotels. Slats, Timmy, and Pops went home—to wives, kids, dogs, and everything. Before he left, Timmy secretly grabbed a center patch, a top rocker, and a Nomads side rocker from the “flash stash.” He didn’t tell anyone. He got home at 3:00 a.m., snuck up to his bedroom, and nudged his wife awake.
Timmy would not be a prospect. He’d paid his dues through years of undercover work on gangbangers, sex offenders, and street dealers. He had more property-crime experience—robberies, larcenies, home invasions— than all of us put together. He knew that the Angels prospected their guys for no less than a full year, and that, to keep up appearances, he was probably expected to prospect for Rudy for at least three months, the lesser standard that most other clubs demanded. As far as he was concerned, this was unacceptable. He knew he could serve Black Biscuit better and faster as a “full patch,” an official member.
His wife sat up in bed. He showed her the patches and his vest and begged her to sew them on. She said OK. He made a pot of coffee and they sat together over the sewing machine in the room off the garage.
The next day Timmy showed up at the Patch decked out in all his flash. We laughed it off. Rudy fumed. Slats shrugged, said, “All right, let’s get to work.” I slapped Timmy on the back, glad to have him as a full partner, and said, “I guess that’s how us Solos roll.”
Timmy said, “Damn right. Fast and right at you.”
8 JESUS HATES A PUSSY
AUGUST 1 , 2002
FIVE DAYS AFTER Too Broke, we got an invitation to meet Bad Bob at the Mesa clubhouse.
Bob expected us at 9:00 p.m. We decided to meet at a church parking lot in Gilbert, Arizona, a former town that had been engulfed by Phoenix’s insatiable sprawl. Pops, Carlos, Timmy, and I were about as close as we could be to shitting our pants. Too Broke felt like it had taken place months ago. Meeting the Angels in a tent outside during the day wasn’t the same as riding our bikes into their driveway at 153 South LeBaron, kicking down, unassing, and walking right into their cinderblock stronghold.
At night.
I felt certain we were setting ourselves up. I thought our game might be too tight, and imagined Rudy was a tweaker dickhead cop-hater who wanted to see us smoked. We knew that it didn’t take much for a UC to end up as dead as Elvis. If we’d miscalculated or been too brash, we’d be gone before we could finish saying, “Mister Hells Angels, sir, it’s an honor to—” Sure, the cover team would storm in a few minutes later, but they’d only be able to even the score, hose our brains off the wall, and snap some tags around our toes.
We sat around a picnic table under a mesquite tree, waiting for Rudy. The sun was down, but the desert twilight lingered. Pops and I smoked like twin furies. It was August in Arizona, and the sweat sealed our Solo cuts to our torsos like second skins.
I had my Glocks, and Carlos and Timmy each carried Beretta .380s. Pops had a Smith & Wesson five-shot revolver. It’s basically forbidden to arm an informant, even a paid one like Pops, but I trusted him and was unwilling to put him in harm’s way without a means of defending himself.
I flipped, closed, flipped, closed my Zippo. Carlos popped gum. Pops talked to his wife on his cell. Timmy just sat there, calm as a lizard on a rock. Bastard.
Rudy pulled in. He revved his engine, fired down, and jumped off. He didn’t have a gun. Pops was a friend; Rudy was a means to an end. He was still a convicted felon with revoked gun rights.
“Sorry I’m late.” He didn’t sound sorry.
I didn’t care. I said, “No worrie
s. We got time.”
Timmy said, “It’s only seven, prez.”
“All right.” Rudy unwrapped a new soft pack of Reds, bit off the foil, and shook out a smoke. I lit it for him.
We didn’t say anything.
Then Rudy said, “OK, I’m in charge when we’re inside, don’t forget it. You step on my toes and the show’s over. The Angels operate by the book, and they expect us to also. I don’t wanna lose the stature I’ve built up for you snouts. I need to see the pride you got for your colors. Also, we might ride with these guys tonight. Hate to break you off so fast, but you gotta know a couple things. We’ll be at the back, keeping up. We gotta keep up. They blow a light, we blow a light. They get traffic-stopped, we get trafficstopped. Mesa rides like the Blue Angels on Memorial Day. Other charters hate riding with ’em ’cause they’re such fucking road Nazis. Stay eighteen inches off the wheel in front of you. And stay back. Never, ever cross the line of a full patch’s front wheel. You pass one of these guys and there will be hell to pay.”
No one said anything.
Rudy said, “The fuck? You guys ready?” We looked at each other in silence. Even grizzly old Pops, who on most days couldn’t have given a shit if someone put a bullet in his head, stayed quiet. Rudy was disgusted. “Listen, if we’re gonna do this, then let’s roll over as fast and hard as we can. We’re gonna get off our motorcycles and walk up to these guys like we’re the baddest pricks on earth. We’re gonna look ’em in the eye and tell ’em who we are. What comes next, comes next. We’ll handle it.” Rudy looked directly at me. “If you don’t have it in you, if you wanna go home right now and tell your neighbor’s wife what a badass you are, then let’s call this bullshit off and close the case, because it has to start right here and right now.” Our silence continued, born more of shame than of fear.
“Jesus Hates a Pussy.” I blurted it out. The guys looked at me with what-the-fuck? looks. I said, “It’s my old partner Chris Bayless’s mantra for this kind of situation. He were here, he’d say, ‘So, your stomach’s in knots and you wanna go home. Well, strap your nuts up and go to work. Jesus hates a pussy—you’re a fucking undercover, you gotta do what you gotta do!’ C’mon, guys, I’m nervous as hell, but Jesus hates a pussy, all right?”
No Angel: My undercover journey to the dark heart of the Hells Angels Page 7
