I mentioned that a bunch of friends and I were planning on having dinner later on. I insisted that I treat them to surf-and-turf at Jose’s, up in La Jolla. Smitty and Lydia accepted. Pete said he wouldn’t be able to make it, but told me to stop by his bar, Dumont’s, if I had the time.
I grabbed my board and decided to head back into the water to show them what I could do.
I paddled out and turned around. I could see them as I bobbed up and down, my feet dangling below me in the Pacific. Lydia waved. I couldn’t tell if Smitty or Pete did anything, but they were clearly looking in my direction. I waved back—a big, goofy kid’s wave. I was having fun sticking it in their faces. I couldn’t see the point of being a Hells Angel if it meant you couldn’t enjoy things like surfing.
I dropped into a lazy four-foot wave and glided along its face. Before it petered out, I threw the board over the edge of the wave and grabbed the rail and fell into the water. I came up and looked at the bar. Lydia was waving again.
I could even see Smitty’s cocky, big-ass granddad’s smile from all the way out there.
AS SOON AS they left the bar, I got out of the water and headed to the Holiday Inn where the conference attendees were staying. I grabbed Carlos and we gathered a bunch of agents, including the young female operative who’d been at Laughlin, Jenna “JJ” Maguire. JJ would be my girlfriend for the night.
I knew I’d eventually need a full-time girlfriend on the case. Whoever this woman was, she’d need a take-no-shit mentality in order to survive—and thrive—in the biker world.
There aren’t too many female street agents—the ratio of men to women is somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty to one—so we were lucky to meet JJ when we did. JJ’s main drawback was that she was a complete greenhorn, but she had a ton of things going for her. She had brains, ambition, a positive and sunny attitude, fearlessness, and self-control. She was also very attractive, which couldn’t be overlooked since it was the first thing any Hells Angel was going to notice about her.
I spoke with her a few hours before dinner. I didn’t want to pop into the restaurant with her on my arm; I wanted her introduction to look spontaneous. We decided to station her at the bar, where I’d notice her as a onetime flame, and I’d send her a drink and invite her over. This “chance encounter” would give her an out whenever she wanted it—if she got uncomfortable or if I thought she was in over her head, she’d simply excuse herself for having made other plans. It also gave me a good out if Smitty or Lydia decided they didn’t like her.
That didn’t happen.
Smitty took right to her, first because of her looks and then because of her personality. JJ was all smiles and kept Lydia occupied. I think if she could have, Lydia would’ve taken her back to Bullhead that night.
Carlos and I intro’d everyone as Solos associates of one kind or another. The team was practiced and professional. They deflected all attention to Smitty and Lydia. All of them told Smitty how honored they were to have the chance to sit down and hang out with a senior Hells Angel, and for his birthday no less.
Smitty happily accepted the attention. He told us he’d been in Vietnam, had killed lots of gooks, and had extensive military training. He made it sound like he was a Ranger, Marine, and SEAL all wrapped into one lethal package. I thought of Scott Varvil, and for a moment it seemed like Smitty was no different from that broke-dick school nurse with the gun and bike fetishes.
But once he got rolling he talked about Laughlin and whispered about how much he hated the Mongols. He told us everything we already knew: that he’d been arrested at Laughlin and was likely to face a murder rap, and that he was still without his dear old cut, which had been impounded. We gasped at this, as if impounding a Hells Angel’s cut was not only unreasonable but downright un-American. He appreciated our outrage.
At the end of the night I took the waitress aside and told her to bring cake for everyone, and to put a candle in the slice for the Hells Angel.
The cake was vanilla with white icing, the candle was red. By that point in the evening, JJ sat between me and Smitty. Lydia had gone home relatively early. Smitty smiled and blew out his candle. JJ interrupted his hand and grabbed his fork. She cut into the cake and held a chunk to Smitty’s mouth. Smitty took the bite and chewed, smiling all the way. JJ fed him a few more bites. Smitty said, “Shit, my wish just came true.”
It was a good performance, one I didn’t expect from such a young and inexperienced agent. JJ was a natural.
After dessert, Smitty leaned into my shoulder and asked if I’d do a collection for him in Bullhead. I said sure, no sweat. Smitty also said he had some shit for me when we got home, pulling his finger like he was firing a gun. I said cool, dude, you know me. I said it was too bad we didn’t hook up before Dago, since Carlos and I’d be running to Mexico in a couple days. I said he could’ve had a little extra birthday cash to throw around. He lamented, saying, well, next year, next year.
I doubted that.
WE GOT BACK to Bullhead refreshed and ready to roll.
Slats and I agreed that Smitty’s collection was a gift, a perfect opportunity to gain more credibility. In fact, it was ideal since we’d be protecting the guy from an otherwise certain ass-whooping. We decided to slow-play it to see if we could get any more information out of Smitty. We were professionals. I wanted it to look like we knew how deep the pool was before we dove in.
A few days after getting back from Dago, Timmy and I met up with Smitty one evening in the parking lot of the Sand Bar Tavern. We shook hands and Smitty told us to follow his white pickup over to his house.
The Smiths lived in a nice working-class neighborhood of doublewides and simple ranches. Their street was named Swan Road. I liked that.
We pulled up to the house around eight-thirty in the evening. It had been another scorcher—115, 120 degrees. Light still hung in the sky, as if trapped by the heat, and Lydia watered her plants in the front yard. It was a nice yard. Sea-glass wind chimes, eccentric whirligigs, painted stones, and garden gnomes. There was a large neon red-white-and-blue peace sign propped against the side of the house. None of the decorations was expensive-looking.
Lydia waved as we kicked the bikes down. Timmy and I waved back. She looked happy, not strung-out or hungover. She had on dark denim shorts and a light denim shirt knotted below her sternum. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. It was her gardening uniform.
I said, “Hey, Lydia. Yard looks good. Love the gnomes.”
“Thanks, Bird. Hey, Timmy.”
Timmy said hey and we walked up the wooden steps to the doorway, which was occupied by a beckoning Smitty.
The inside of the trailer was neat and orderly. Angels memorabilia were strewn across the walls and coffee tables—plaques, trophies, framed newspaper clippings and obits, drawings—and in the living area, next to the television, was a single black-and-white monitor whose image was split into quads. Three of the quads had images of the outside of the Smith residence—the fourth was black. Lydia busied herself in the yard in the lower-left section.
Smitty directed us to the dining table while lifting two Coors Lights from the fridge. He passed them out and we each popped one open. He then mixed himself a Crown and Coke. Smitty sat down with us. Lydia walked in and did stuff in the kitchen.
Smitty complained about an argument he’d gotten into at work about a co-worker’s son who’d died on a motorcycle Smitty had sold him. He looked into his Crown and Coke like it was an oracle and said, “Man, I been around too much death lately. Laughlin, a brother’s son got killed recently, this kid. Too much, man, too much.”
We didn’t say much. We were tough guys, used to death and death’s senselessness. As far as Smitty knew, we were hit men—what did we care about a few random deaths?
He caught on to our indifference, straightened up in his chair, and said, “I don’t like death, you know? Unless I’m the cause of it. You know.”
He changed the subject and told us about the collection. It
was over a disputed eight grand a guy named Porter owed to a woman Smitty kept calling “Crazy Carol.” The dispute was currently in court, with Carol as the plaintiff and Porter defending. He gave us a docket number and the guy’s home address.
Suddenly, Dennis whisked in without knocking.
No one seemed surprised. Maybe Smitty had caught sight of him on the surveillance system. Dennis moved into the kitchen, got a beer, and settled down. Smitty asked him if he knew this Porter guy, and Dennis said he didn’t.
Dennis was sweating and on edge. He took his beer, opened the front door, looked outside in three directions, and walked down the steps.
With Dennis gone, Lydia asked, “Bird, you know what they call Dennis?”
“Nope.”
Smitty said, “They call him Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee.”
Lydia asked, “You know why they call him that?”
“No. Why?”
“Because he cooks the best rock you can find. The absolute best,” said Smitty.
Lydia said, “Make Jesus jealous, his shit’s so good.”
Dennis came back in. No one asked him anything, but he trilled, “Naw, I don’t know no Porter. Why the fuck would I know some Porter guy?”
Smitty said he messed around in the drug game. Dennis ignored him and started to bitch about seven grand he owed the county. Apparently his residence had incurred some taxes while he was in lockup.
Smitty went to the kitchen for another drink. When he returned he said, “You know? I got another thing for you. Bail bonds place has about three hundred grand out and they need it back. They wanted me to help them, but I just can’t do it now, not with all this heat from Laughlin. You should take that action, Bird, it could really help set you up.”
I lit a cigarette and pretended to think it over. No way could I, a federal agent, start collecting debts from low-lifes for some broke-dick bail bondsman. On the other hand, I couldn’t say no right away. I said I’d think about it, I was pretty busy with my Vegas work and the guns— but the percentage on three hundred grand was nothing to shake a finger at. I also said I’d do the Porter thing, but that I needed to do it my way, which was methodically and by the numbers. I said I needed to case him a little and that it might take a few weeks. He said he didn’t care as long as it got done.
I squashed out my smoke and Timmy and I got ready to leave. Dennis plopped down on the couch and squealed, “Later.” Lydia gave both Timmy and me a kiss on the cheek as we passed the kitchen. She told me to say hi to Carlos. Smitty said, “You know, Bird, I was thinking. You oughta move that little blonde number out to Bullhead.”
I told him I’d been thinking that too, I really had.
14 “FUCK YOUR GUNS!”
SEPTEMBER 2002
THE NEXT WEEK was busy as hell. Flew to New York on September 9 to be part of an ATF peer support team and to go to some 9/11 memorial events. While I was there I hit a local biker bar named Hogs and Heifers to throw back drinks with other agents, including Karen, a female special agent based in New York. I was extra cocky that night. I put a call in to Bad Bob saying I was in New York on a collection. I asked if I could visit the boys at the Third Street clubhouse. He told me he had to make some calls. He called back fifteen minutes later. He said I should call Branden, the New York City P, at such-and-such a number. I did and Branden said, “Fuck yeah, come over!”
I was dumbstruck. The New York P was a guy known around the biker world. He didn’t owe me—a nobody from a nothing club—a damn thing. Bob’s willingness to vouch for me opened that door.
As I left, Karen implored me not to go, saying it was stupid to go without any cover. I asked, “Go where?”
She said, “You’re going to meet the Hells Angels, Jay.”
“I don’t know where you got that from, and besides, fuck the Hells Angels. I’m not worried about what they’re going to do to me. They should be worried about what I’m going to do them!”
She looked me dead in the eye and said, “I’m glad I’m not working with you. You’re out of your mind. If you leave, I’m going home.” This was probably the first time during Black Biscuit that my desire to succeed overcame my common sense.
I flagged a cab and said, “Take me to the Hells Angels, dude!” He didn’t know where that was. I said Third Street between First and Second avenues.
I was scared—I’d been scared a lot lately and I was getting kind of used to it—Jesus Hates a Pussy!—but I couldn’t believe what I was doing. As the cab crossed town I told myself I couldn’t chicken out. I thought of the time I went bungee jumping, of how terrified I was at the thought of jumping off a bridge only to be saved by a glorified rubber band. I remembered how every nerve in my body told me not to jump, while my mind screamed, “You need to man-up and just do it, dude!” I threw myself off that bridge. It was almost more than I could handle, but it was exhilarating, and worth the fear. That’s what it came down to: Were the risks taken worth the fear? Would I be able to live with myself if I’d given up? No. I’d have no self-respect. How could I expect people—my family, my partners, even the people I investigated— to respect me if it was obvious I didn’t respect myself?
We pulled up. I paid. I got out and lit a cigarette. I crossed the street.
The New York Hells Angels lived on arguably the safest block in New York City. They owned an entire tenement building. It was painted black. The sidewalk in front of their building was cordoned off with barrels and bikes. There were plenty of cameras trained on the front door and street. The sidewalk was so clean it looked like someone had polished it. I knocked. A small shade slid open. A pair of black eyes. A voice asked, “Who is it?” I said, “I’m Bird, Branden’s expecting me.” The door opened. A big dude, like five-bushels-of-wheat big, blocked the opening. He said he was Lumpy. I held my smart-assed tongue, shook his hand, and went inside for the nickel tour.
The place was a museum. HA paraphernalia everywhere, going way back. Pictures, plaques, flags, framed in-memoriam cuts and tabs, old guns, a battle ax, helmets, knives, newspaper clippings, even decommissioned bikes. It was Hells Angels heaven. I was zooming.
I’d fallen under my own spell.
I didn’t stay long. I only wanted to pay my respects. I bought some T-shirts to show the boys out west. I met a few guys, one of whom was among the scariest dudes I’ve ever laid eyes on. He was only five-eleven, but he weighed about 300 pounds and didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. He was an Illinois Angel named Mel Chancey. The scariest thing about him wasn’t his size, it was his smile and easy laugh. It looked and sounded kind, but what it said underneath was, “Hey man, nice to meet you, I’d love to bash your head in on the curb. Wanna go outside?” I steered clear of him. Branden asked if I wanted a sausage from a fair on First Avenue, said they made them real nice, Italian-style, with peppers and onions on soft bread. I declined. I left not twenty mintues after having arrived.
I decided to check out Ground Zero. I wanted to do a right thing, for the right reasons. Something in me had to push back against the impulsiveness and recklessness of Bird. I got there around ten at night.
The streets were quiet. There was the pit, still in disarray, flooded with lights. High fencing cordoned off the area, with pieces of paper and photos and posters laced into the lattice of the fence. A small group of people huddled at the corner of Church and Vesey—they looked like Mennonites—the men bearded, the women in bonnets and wearing dresses that looked like nineteenth-century kitchen aprons. The previous night, two columns of blue light had shot up from a huge array of spotlights, reaching for the heavens, honoring the souls lost that day and the ghosts of buildings gone. Everything felt respectful. I forgot who I was and who I was pretending to be, who the Angels were and who they were pretending to be. I was in the biggest, busiest city in the country and it was almost entirely silent. I stared at a fluttering American flag. For a few minutes I put everything aside.
Then I got on the train and went back to my hotel in Brooklyn.
I FLEW HOME
on September 13. I landed in Tucson, got in my car, and drove home. I never settled in. The things I did around the house I did poorly. I mowed the lawn, neglecting whole tracts, leaving mohawks in the grass. Gwen scolded me. I knew something wasn’t right. The old me—the real me?—would’ve been correcting mistakes. My current incarnation didn’t care. All I wanted was to go back to work.
The afternoon before I left, Dale had some friends over for a pool party. I watched them in their bathing suits—twelve- and thirteen-yearold girls on the verge of growing up—and all I could think about were the women the bikers hung out with. The old ladies, the daughters, the whores. I could confidently guess how the lives of women like these had differed from Dale’s and her friends’, how it was that some women ended up in a Hells Angels clubhouse as drug mules and dealers, waiting for their old man to come around so he could demand—and get—a blow job or whatever else he wanted. I knew with dead certainty that these women had fathers who were never there for them, who never showed them any love (or showed them too much of the wrong kind of love), who never told them they were valuable in any way. It hurt to watch my daughter play with her girlfriends as these specters hung over me. It hurt to think that, given some bad breaks and poor decisions, it was possible, though unlikely, that any of these girls splashing in my pool could be in similar circumstances in only a few years.
I called Dale over, interrupting her fun. She had to get out of the pool and wasn’t happy about having to do something for her dad. She pleaded, “What is it, Daddy?”
As she stopped in front of me I said, “This is important, Shoey”— when Jack was a baby he pronounced “sister” as “sheshu,” which Gwen and I changed to Shoey and which stuck—“so listen carefully, OK?” She threw out an impatient hip and rolled her eyes. “Just hear me out, OK? I need to tell you this.”
No Angel: My undercover journey to the dark heart of the Hells Angels Page 11
