Troubleshooter

by Gregg Hurwitz

  Guerrera frowned thoughtfully. He had the face of a teenager, still not hardened out despite the stubble on his cheeks. His long eyelashes and full lips looked more Italian than what people might think of as Cuban, but he was Little Havana through and through. “Outlaw bikes are lean and mean. It’s a rough ride, beats your insides. Full-dressers come off an assembly line at seven hundred pounds, but outlaws’ll strip ’em down to four—that’s called a cutaway. Maybe they steal a garbage wagon from a weekend warrior. If they don’t part it out, they’ll dump the saddlebags, the fairing, the extra chrome, the springs on the forks, the rear shocks, the fender. They’ll re-form the seats, downsize the headlights, install dual carburetors.

  “Most outlaws’ll swap out the thick stock tanks because they cover the top of the motor and hide the horses, but Sinners, especially nomads, leave them on in case they need more gas for cop chases. That’s why they prefer swing-arm handlebars to ape hangers, too—easier to navigate on the run. They’ll pull every trick in the book to make their bikes faster—cut down the flywheels on the left side for faster acceleration, throw in suicide clutches, and power-jump with hot cams, fat valves, and increased bore and stroke. You won’t find Sinner nomads doing dumb shit like going sky-high on the front tire. They’re more pragmatic that way—they’ll sacrifice looks for speed. They have to outrun Johnny Law, and they’re not gonna get tangled up because they raked out the front wheel four feet. That’s something to remember with the Sinners—despite the noise, they’re outlaws first, bikers second.”

  “We need to find every point of leverage,” Tim said. “I want to know if any of these mutts ever skipped on a bail bondsman. I want you talking to members in jail—isn’t their former secretary doing a dime up at the ‘Q’?”

  “Yeah, but these boys don’t roll over,” Guerrera said. “Not even in the clink.”

  “So? We just let him pump iron and watch The Bachelor all day? I want him interviewed. Haines?”

  “Got it.”

  “Zimmer, you’ll liaise with Homicide on the murders. Thomas— what do we have on active Sinner investigations?”

  “Where do you want me to start? An old broad in a Mary Kay pink Caddy hit and killed a Sinner out on PCH last year. She was murdered in her Pasadena home two days later. A hitchhiker got turned out in August—gang-raped and kept with the club for three months. She won’t press charges. Supposedly the Sinners keep files on family members for shit like that. They know where your niece goes to elementary school—you want to squeal, you got a hefty decision on your hands. A floater washed up—”

  “Get all the case files, see if you spot any inroads. How’s the intel on members of the mother chapter?”

  “Surprisingly bad,” Bear said. “The clubhouse is sealed off, helmet laws ensure we can’t tell them apart on the road, and distinguishing marks don’t help for shit when they’ve all got them. Believe it or not, the nomads are easier to ID because they’re all fugitives.”

  “Sheriff’s Station in Fillmore has been sitting on the clubhouse since right after the break. Jim—take Maybeck and get up there….” Tim noticed that everyone was staring at Jim. Another drop of blood fell from Jim’s ear, tapping the paper in front of him. “Jim. Jim … you have …”

  “Oh.” Jim cupped his hand, catching the trickle. He looked at his stained hand blankly. “Sorry, guys.”

  “Why don’t you step out, go down to the nurses’ station.”

  “Right. Okay.”

  The door closed behind him. Tim took a moment to recapture his thoughts, the pause stretching out uncomfortably. Thomas exhaled hard, puffing his cheeks. Bear slid his jaw to one side, cracking it.

  “Okay, Maybeck, go check in with the deputies keeping an eye on the clubhouse. Tell them to keep the Sinners tangled up in penny-ante nonsense—muffler violations, high handlebars, helmet infractions. Have them put another set of locals a few miles down the road to write them up for the same stuff. That’ll help us match faces to names and give us good records on who’s moving in and around the clubhouse and on what bikes. What are the odds on sliding someone in undercover?”

  “Nil,” Malane said quickly.

  Guerrera, loath to agree with a Feeb, nodded reluctantly. “It’s almost impossible. You gotta snuff someone to get in these days, just to prove you’re not law enforcement. Then you have to get through the initiation ceremony. Nasty, nasty shit.”

  “Okay, forget it. But let’s red-flag the leads near the mother chapter—the safe houses double as crash pads, so they usually aren’t far away.” Tim turned to Malane. “We’re gonna need the files you used during the trial, everything from the murders to the CCE.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Do better than that.”

  Malane folded his hands across his belly, a gesture that might have looked assured on a broader man. “I’ll tell you right now, everything’s registered in the names of their women—real estate, portfolios, the whole mother lode. That’s how they do it. Since a lot of them are felons and can’t pack, they even have their women carry their guns for them.”

  “Let’s use that, then,” Tim said. “The women might be our route in. I want to know who they are and who they’re paired with. Guerrera, how’s it work?”

  “The Sinners use different terms for their broads than the other biker gangs—part of their new-breed image. ‘Mamas’ are called ‘slags,’ ‘old ladies’ are ‘deeds.’ Slags are club property, tagalong putas. Any of the boys can dip into one whenever they want, trade her to another club for bike parts, whatever. Now and then the club’ll kidnap a girl or ‘recruit’ her from a battered-women’s shelter and turn her out. A deed belongs to one dude, and no one messes with that, you know.”

  Tim asked, “One deed for each biker?”

  “Except Uncle Pete, who keeps a handful. Property jackets ain’t enough for him—all his old ladies give up a little finger. That’s the cost to sled with papi chulo.”

  “Okay,” Tim said. “It all starts with intel. We need better information. Let’s go get it.”

  One of the court security officers leaned into the room. “A Cholo just got shot off his bike in Piru.”

  Bear cocked back in his chair, catching Tim’s eye. “Game season open.”

  5

  Bear drove his beater of a Dodge Ram, Tim riding shotgun and Guerrera sandwiched between them on the bench seat. They wound over Grimes Canyon Road from Moorpark to Fillmore. When they passed the dirt turnoff to the garage shack where Tim had first confronted Ginny’s killer, he felt his stomach tighten as it always did. He’d eradicated many of his painful reactions—to little girls’ laughter, the smell of Jolly Ranchers, hacksaws—but the familiar dirt road still got to him. Distracted with a phone call, Guerrera didn’t take note of Tim’s discomfort, but Bear, familiar with the secret history, glanced over, gauging Tim’s temperature.

  The fall blazes hadn’t left much in their aftermath—scorched hills, ash-streaked foundations, beavertail cactus cooked to a pale yellow and collapsed in limp piles. The few trees that had magically avoided incineration thrust up from the blackened ground like charred skeletons. The late-afternoon sun was low to the horizon, lending a cinematographer’s cast to the bleak landscape.

  Earlier Tim had dispatched Haines and Zimmer to check out the Piru shooting so he could review the admittedly slight case information at hand and get the command-post structure up and running— bureaucratic responsibilities he was only too glad to assume with his new role. His afternoon meeting at L.A. County Sheriff’s Headquarters in Monterey Park had gone well, as he’d anticipated—the two agencies had a history of working closely, and both accorded the unfolding case top priority. A mutual aid agreement between departments pulled in Ventura Sheriff’s, Dray’s agency, seamlessly. Already the techies had put together a database to record the intel Tim had requested on biker stops—it could be accessed and updated online from the various stations. Before Tim had left the meeting, names and descriptions of the Sinner
mother-chapter members were already trickling in. The Ventura deputies, familiar with individual Sinners from drug-related arrests within their jurisdiction, seemed to be leading the charge.

  Guerrera flipped his phone shut. “So Haines confirms that there were no witnesses to the Piru shooting. Our boy Chooch Millan was gunned down on a quiet road at the city outskirts. They stripped his originals, left muchacho in an undershirt.”

  “Why take the jacket?” Bear asked.

  “An outlaw’s originals are his ultimate symbol of pride—more than his bike, even. Once they’re awarded, they’re never washed.”

  “Never?”

  “Not even after initiation ceremonies where the jackets—and their proud new wearers—get baptized by oil, piss, and shit. The hard-core dudes even leave their jackets under their bikes at night to collect crankcase drippings. Yeah, it’s sacrilege to wash the originals. Punishable by death, even.”

  Knowing that Bear’s fascination with the lurid would likely lead to a conversational detour, Tim steered Guerrera back on track. “What else did Haines get?”

  “Looks to be an AR-15, same they used in the break. Sheriff’s devoted a lot of units to the area, but nothing doing. Bikers are too fast. Those boys were long gone before Sheriff’s even got the call.”

  Bear gestured ahead, to where the road wound down through the hills. “Piru’s less than ten miles from the Sinner clubhouse.”

  The truck veered close to the high-rising canyon wall, and Tim could see where people had etched graffiti into the rock. SEAN +SUZIE. MICKEY P IS NO STRANGER TO THE HOG. SINNER TERRITORY: GUARD YER WOMEN. “Chooch Millan,” Tim said. “He an officer?”

  “Not according to Haines.”

  “Nomad?”

  Guerrera shook his head. “No one important. Just a regular Cholo. What’s up?”

  “It seems odd. The Sinners risked a high-profile break. If the motive was revenge for Nigger Steve—the first Sinner nomad to be killed—why wouldn’t they waste someone higher up the food chain? Or pull off something bigger in scope? Shooting a regular member on a deserted road? That’s chickenshit. It doesn’t add up.”

  “Maybe they just wanted to punch someone’s clock,” Bear said. “Get the ball rolling.”

  “I’m with Rack,” Guerrera said. “It’s not how these guys think. They usually want to go bigger, you know? Their egos are built for escalation.”

  “How do you know so much about all this shit?” Bear asked.

  Guerrera shrugged. “I grew up in a crap town outside Miami. Me and my brothers rode with a junior club out there, the Vatos. That’s all there was to do. Tool your sled and follow the asphalt. So we did. The motherfuckers graduated to the Cholos.”

  “And you?” Tim asked.

  “I bailed out. Went to the Corps.”

  A half-burned tree barely maintained its clutch on a ridge, and all three took a moment to admire its tenacity.

  “I hate those guys. Ate up my barrio. Left a lot of mis hermanos horizontal.”

  “Your actual brothers?”

  “Nah. We all got out. Mamá ’s too tough to put up with that shit.”

  They were in the Fillmore flats now, weaving through a gone-to-hell neighborhood. Guerrera took in a Confederate flag waving atop a lawn-stranded car up on blocks. “We don’t need backup, huh?” He tried to strike a casual tone but fell short of the mark.

  “The nomads aren’t dumb enough to be there,” Tim said. “We have to draw them out. And we have a better shot at watching them if they’re trying to watch us.”

  “Or trying to kill us,” Bear offered.

  “That, too.”

  Bear idled up to the curb, parking behind an endless row of Harleys. Set back behind a jagged fence loomed a sprawling, dilapidated house. At one point it had been farm style, but it was burdened with so many build-ons and repairs that it had surrendered any show of unity. Bike parts littered the front yard, half buried in dirt where a lawn had expired. The Sinners had enough money hidden in various accounts to tear the place down and erect a castle, but the road-grit theme seemed more suitable. Sandbags were piled thigh-high around the walls, and chicken wire guarded the already barred windows from grenade lobs.

  Guerrera dabbed the sweat off his forehead. He checked the clip in his Glock and reholstered it. His hands were trembling, ever so slightly. “You should see the shit they’ve done to hispanos.”

  “It’s okay,” Tim said. “We’ll take lead.”

  “I’m not worried about it, I’m just saying I hate these guys.”

  They climbed out. Immediately floodlights clicked on, and two junkyard mutts with pit bull–square heads hurled themselves against the chain-link, snarling. A security camera pivoted atop a post, facing them like the head of a robot. Tim pulled out his badge and creds and held them up to the lens.

  A moment later a hulking guy with an ace of diamonds tattooed on his shaved skull stepped onto the porch and whistled off the dogs. Tim matched him with a description from the Sheriff’s incipient database— Diamond Dog Phillips.

  “You got a warrant?”

  “We’re not here to bust your balls,” Tim said. “Just want to introduce ourselves to Uncle Pete.”

  “We could go get one….” Bear offered helpfully, angling his wide frame back toward his truck.

  Diamond Dog scowled and retreated back into the house. They waited patiently. He reappeared five minutes later, strode down the walk, and opened the myriad locks on the gate. They followed him inside, stepping into a dark, cavernous living room.

  A few members milled around with slags tarted up in holiday-red-and-green spandex midriffs and microminis. A bank of closed-circuit telemonitors showed off exterior views of the clubhouse. In the background over the pinball machine’s annoying leitmotif, Bearcat scanners chirped, monitoring police frequencies. Steel armor and cinder blocks rimmed the walls from the floor to the bottoms of the windows. A few gunports had been cut on either side of the front door, which had been transplanted from a Mosler walk-in safe. A hint of rot informed the humid air, maybe the smell of soiled leather. Still, the house was in its way another example of high-end L.A. real estate. The decorating budget had just been dispensed according to biker taste and priorities.

  “Sit on the couch,” Diamond Dog said.

  A slag paraded past, swaying her hips, flame tattoos coming up from the waistband of her jeans as if announcing vigorous VD. The front of her shirt proclaimed I’M THE BITCH WHO FELL OFF THE BIKE. Slung in one arm was a baby with a chain tattooed around its neck. Bear and Guerrera sat, but Tim got caught staring.

  “Relax, Heat. It’s henna.”

  “That’s Federal Heat to you.”

  Diamond Dog stood over them, arms crossed, two other club members behind him in a V formation as if posing for a Tarantino one-sheet. One wore shades despite the dim light, the other an unbuttoned biker vest with no undershirt, a toe tag dangling from his pierced nipple. The guy in shades turned around to catch an airborne can of beer. The back of his T-shirt declared, IF YOU CAN READ THIS, THE BITCH FELL OFF MY BIKE.

  “Oh,” Bear said. “I get it now.”

  A coffin in front of the couch served as a coffee table. To the left, a bike painted with distinctive skull patterns dripped oil onto the worn carpet. A lollipop dental mirror poked out from the handlebars as the rearview—letter-of-the-law compliance.

  Guerrera gestured at the bike. “Beautiful spray job.”

  Diamond Dog scratched his crotch, disrupting the tough-guy aesthetics. “That’s Danny the Wand’s work, hijo. Twelve coats of paint on the gas tank alone. You don’t even deserve to look at it.”

  “Danny the Wand?” Bear said. “The guy’s a John Holmes or something?”

  Diamond Dog laughed with his cohorts, showing off a missing front tooth. “Yeah, that’s it. Danny’s big dick.”

  A few Sinners gathered in the doorway to the accompanying room. Prosthetic limbs, do-rags, missing earlobes—they looked like a gathering of well-fed carnies.
“Hey, Annie.” An older biker curled his finger at her. The end of a bare mattress was barely in view beyond the doorjamb.

  As Annie handed off the baby, Tim noticed shiny scars running down her legs like seams. Den’s sartorial experiment?

  She headed into the other room. Noting Bear’s expression of disgust, Diamond Dog smirked and tilted his head at Annie. “You want a piece?”

  “I wouldn’t fuck her with your dick and him pushing.”

  “I ain’t screwin’ no cop,” Annie called back over her shoulder.

  “Right,” Bear said. “Wouldn’t want to lower your standards.”

  She disappeared into the fold of men. The older guy grasped her shoulders, and they stepped back onto the mattress, disappearing from view. The others waited, thumbing their belt loops and grinning.

  “Why don’t you lend a hand?” Bear said, gesturing to the other room. “I think they need someone to run anchor.”

  One of the other bikers laughed. “Dog picked himself up a good case of the Mexican crabs.”

  The skin on Guerrera’s face was taut. “They’re different across the border?”

  “Yeah.” He launched into a not-bad accent. “They doan gah no car insurance.”

  Laughter and high fives.

  Guerrera said, “Now I get why you’re missing that front tooth.”

  The sounds from the other room grew louder. Someone called, “Hey, Toe-Tag. Whelp. You waiting for a written invite?”

  “Cool names,” Bear said. “You guys have a tree fort out back, too?”

  The two shuffled off to take their place in the train, clearing Tim’s view of the far wall, where leather jackets were strung like game fish, crude placards affixed to them. Most of them featured Cholo originals, stripped from ass-kicked members. Outlaws who lost their colors—but survived—had to reclaim them to return to their clubs or, in some cases, to keep their lives; the bold display was a virtual advertisement to their rivals for a clubhouse raid. Tim thought of Chooch Millan’s jacket, stripped from his dead body only hours ago, and figured that the Sinners destroyed stolen colors that doubled as evidence. Only two Sinner originals were in the mix, Nigger Steve’s barely visible through the gloom.