“I whipped a spark plug at the shitheads,” he said casually. “I think it’s the ceramic part that causes the glass to explode. I never ride anywhere without them in a handy pocket.”
“Yeah, man,” I replied. “Shit, one second there was a windshield there, and the next second there was nothing. Holy fuck.”
“You’re not worried about those fucks, are you?” he asked.
“Nah, fuck no. I just never seen anything like that shit before.”
“Stick around and you will see shit you won’t believe, all the fucking time,” he said.
Several days later, Slater called us together for the first official meeting of the Sandy Hook Pagans in our new Atlantic Highlands clubhouse. He had secured a nondescript one-story cement-block building off Avenue A. It was just a few blocks from the town’s business district, which included several bars and the Atlantic Highlands Police Department. We were literally within walking distance of police headquarters. But no one saw that as any kind of a problem.
The flat-roofed building had four commercial-grade garage doors along the front, along with one steel entry door. It was adjacent to another building that also had a row of garage doors along the front. The space, which looked like it was intended for storage for a plumbing or landscaping company, was big enough to hold our prized Harleys. There was also room for tables, chairs and a couple of slightly used couches for the eight of us. That was about it; there was a bathroom, but no shower.
Me standing in front of the former Pagan clubhouse, just a few blocks from the police headquarters in Atlantic Highlands. We used the building for weekly meetings and met there before rides to Asbury Park and other locations. (Photo by Douglas P. Love)
Slater walked to the back of our new clubhouse and announced to the group that the Pagans Motorcycle Club had green-lighted the creation of the new Sandy Hook chapter. Now was the time for us to decide if we wanted in or not, he said. Once we had our colors, it would be too late for us to back out; we would be “patched” members of the outlaw motorcycle club. You could be granted a “retirement” after 10 years. What he didn’t say was that in 10 years the odds were overwhelming that you would be either dead or enduring a nice, long stint in prison.
No one voiced any objection, so Slater went ahead and named the officers of the club (there was no election) and handed out the patches, which were to be sewn onto a sleeveless, collarless denim jacket. Over time, the jacket would fade and naturally show its age; it was never supposed to be washed. We were to wear the colors proudly and treat them as something even more valuable than our custom choppers.
The colors for the Pagans Motorcycle Club included a series of four patches grouped together on the back of the vest. At the top was a patch that said simply “Pagans,” with either blue or red letters on a white background. Below it was an image of the Pagan Fire God, a sort of angry Norse icon. And below that were two square patches, one with the letter M and another with the letter C, signifying Motorcycle Club. We were also given a diamond-shaped image that was imprinted with “1%,” meaning that we were now members of an outlaw one-percent motorcycle club. Only a true, no-shit outlaw biker would dare to wear this on a patch or even on a T-shirt. It was a statement in itself.
The patches were new and shiny in a motorcycle club in which old and faded was revered. Indeed, some members had colors so faded and worn that they could only be read by someone standing just a few feet away. Normally, a biker would carry his colors with him for life; they were his most important possession, and there were dire consequences to anyone who lost them. Even cops knew enough not to screw with a biker’s colors—or to be prepared for a serious reprisal. Wearing Pagan colors gave a man instant respect on the street; Leo DiCaprio might be able to travel anywhere in the world and buy yachts and mansions with his millions, but no one commanded more respect, no one was more feared, than a one-percenter.
As expected, Slater said he would be president and Stone would be vice president. Two other guys were named secretary and treasurer, and I was named sergeant-at-arms—responsible for enforcing club rules and adjusting a member’s attitude as needed. There were only three members of the Sandy Hook Pagans who didn’t serve as one of the group’s officers.
The chapter would have mandatory club runs on Memorial Day, the Fourth of July and Labor Day. All members would be required to participate in those rides unless they were in jail or hospitalized. All the club’s members would also have to pay the agreed-upon dues, and everyone’s Harley had to be up and running by April. It was also understood that members had to obey orders from their superiors in the club’s chain of command. Anyone who violated club rules would be subject to being made a prospect—essentially removing any status they may have earned within the club.
Slater also made it clear that we were never allowed to get into a car, or cage, with our colors on; they were only to be worn when we were on our Harleys. Violators would be beaten.
And so I began my new life as a Pagan. As a veteran club member explained to me, I was never supposed to work, ever; I was too good to work. I would have a “bitch” who would be working and providing for me. We were warriors of the Fire God. And God help those who dared fuck with a Pagan. Nevertheless, many Pagans held down jobs—everything from working a garbage truck to owning an auto body shop. The choice belonged to individual club members, and some worked and some didn’t. There was no stigma attached to having a woman put bread on the table. Wives and girlfriends were untouchable. They were with the Pagan they were with. Women who were just hanging with the club were available. There was a clear delineation between a wife or a girlfriend and just a “bitch” hanging with the club.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LIFE WAS EASIER WHEN I WAS CRUEL
One Saturday morning near the end of March 1977, we met up at the garage clubhouse for the first official ride of the Sandy Hook Pagans. We were headed to Philadelphia to see a motorcycle show inside the Spectrum, an indoor arena that had opened a decade earlier and was the first arena that Bruce Springsteen ever played, in 1976. The arena was packed with row upon row of motorcycles, including dozens of chopped Harleys loaded with brilliantly shining chrome; most of the bikes were for sale.
The Philadelphia Police Department had a very large presence and was strictly enforcing a “no gang colors” policy. In a way, the policy was a very good idea, because it showed that the cops were ready to make war no matter how fucking tough you and your club thought you were. The police were more heavily armed than the gangs, and they successfully kept a very volatile situation under control.
Not wearing gang colors hardly prevented one-percenters from displaying other articles, such as leather forearm gauntlets with club insignia. And since this was a very large gathering of warring tribes, most members of any given gang stayed close to one another. You would need to be blind not to discern the gang members in the crowd. Every outlaw club was represented by a sizeable group, and there were innumerable men who could only be described as ferocious in both appearance and attitude.
The Pagans were strongly represented, but other powerful clubs were represented, too. The Wheels of Soul were there in significant numbers; this was a very rare breed of outlaw motorcycle club because it had both white and African-American members. Traditionally, outlaw clubs were more akin to the Aryan Brotherhood and about as minority-friendly as the Ku Klux Klan.
The Wheels of Soul looked very heavy indeed. Their leader was large enough to be an object of morbid curiosity. I briefly wondered how he wound up as an outlaw biker rather than a mauler of running backs and quarterbacks before some national stadium audience. He was white, stood nearly seven feet tall and weighed at least 350 pounds. Although he wasn’t overly muscular, he looked hard and thick—like a cement truck. And I thought he’d be equally difficult to stop in a street fight.
We didn’t take on the Wheels of Soul, but we did beat the shit out of six or seven guys who hap
pened to be standing on the steps outside the arena. We’d spent a couple of hours looking at the bikes and decided to head out to a local watering hole. As a group of about 10 of us were leaving, we saw some guys on the steps and beat them up. I have no idea what the rationale was behind the slugfest, but I simply did as I was told.
The men fought back, but not aggressively. Because there were more Pagans nearby, I suspect they didn’t dare try to win a skirmish against us, only to find themselves losing a bigger and more dangerous battle against our buddies. They took their beatings like good dogs, and clearly had no intention of going to the police or otherwise filing any complaint about our behavior. What was clear was that they weren’t patch holders from another club; they were just a group of wannabe outlaws who somehow offended a patch-wearing Pagan and paid for it.
About 50 of us descended on a tavern that catered to a blue-collar crowd and sold mostly shots and beers. I didn’t see anyone in the place who wasn’t a Pagan, and all of us were drinking heavily. Many in the crowd wore faded colors—longtime members. I tried to avoid getting involved in any serious conversations, worried that I would end up hearing something that I wasn’t supposed to.
The bar owner, a man in his fifties, and his wife were serving beer to the crowd with astonishing speed—and collecting money at the same speed. Though clearly stressed about the quality of the clientele, the husband-and-wife team also seemed pleased to be raking in wads of cash. It wasn’t unusual for bar owners to make a substantial amount of money off one of our parties, but it always came with the risk that we’d get pissed off about something and opt to destroy the place. It was a risk they took, whether they knew it or not. Sometimes even bar owners, employees and patrons can find themselves part of the demolition project. In this case, all was going well—at least for a while.
I was standing by the jukebox when the bar’s front door opened. In sauntered a slender white male who was about 30 years old and fashionably dressed, with a neck scarf tied demurely around his neck. The man bumped into a veteran Pagan, who promptly landed a series of hard punches on him and threw him out the door. Few of the Pagans in the bar even noticed what was going on. The bar owner appeared mildly concerned, but there were no broken bones, and it didn’t look like this was going to result in a police response. What made the incident seem odd to me was that the guy seemed okay with the idea of taking a few hits to his face.
Minutes later, the same man walked back in the door with the same beatific smile on his face, and not looking all that bad given the hits he’d sustained. Again he bumped into the same veteran Pagan, who most people would have been inclined to avoid at all costs. This time, two very adept Pagans laid a quick and nasty beating on the man, who crashed to the floor—but kept on smiling as if Farrah Fawcett was playing his trombone. He was pushed through a gauntlet of uninterested outlaws and hurled through the door; he crashed onto the pavement head-first. I caught another worried look on the owner’s face. But he seemed unsure what to do, if anything. With 50 Pagans in the bar, he may well have thought it dangerous to start hassling one of them.
Then, for a third time, the same man walked back into the bar. Personally, I made it a point to affect a sniper’s calm whenever I was within the bowels of the Fire God Nation. But I will confess that seeing this grinning pain-junkie mince back in a third time was a remarkable and bizarre sight that got my full attention. This time, a gigantic and truly furious Pagan slammed his way through the group and grabbed the offending character as if he was an oversized Raggedy Ann.
“No!” the burly, sweat-soaked bar owner screamed at the top of his lungs, drawing the full attention of everyone in the place—including the one oversized Pagan he was hoping to reach.
The scream had its desired effect, and my fellow Pagan walked the victim to the door, sternly pushed him to the street and ordered a couple of prospects to make sure that he not re-enter.
The bar owner truly saved the guy’s life, and he was not given any grief whatsoever for screaming an order at a member of the Pagan Nation. Somehow, the man had earned the quiet respect of the Pagans he’d been serving, and the group was willing to dial back its level of violence. I later learned that there really was no code of conduct for such situations. Under slightly different circumstances, the bar owner may have found himself under attack, too. If the right combination of alcohol and green were consumed, even respectful conduct by a citizen could lead to violence.
Because we hadn’t prospected, we were being watched closely by the leaders of the Pagans, and they expected us to make our presence known in New Jersey. Slater knew that there’d be all manner of hell to pay for him personally if he didn’t make sure the club was active. We had to show the Pagan colors while riding together with other club members, support other clubs and get into at least some trouble on a regular basis. The trouble often revolved around a night of drinking at a bar.
Since Thursday nights were our club meeting nights, we would meet for a while at our headquarters off Avenue A, where we invariably wound up complaining about someone who owed back dues, talking about any rumored police activity that might impact us and occasionally getting serious about war party plans involving the Hells Angels and my former buddies with the Breed.
One Thursday evening soon after our Philadelphia trip, Slater told us we’d be riding up to a bar farther north to help support the North Jersey chapter, whose membership had been decimated by members serving extended jail terms. We parked our bikes in front of a dingy bar and went inside for a few beers.
“Pagans! I was a Pagan once,” one guy said, laughing, as we walked in the door.
If he had been a Pagan, he would have known better than to joke about it. As the sergeant-at-arms, I knew I needed to have a talk with him immediately. As I got closer to him, he started reciting scripture to me.
“Zip it on the Pagan stuff or I am going to visit you with a little of the old shit fuck, and you ain’t gonna like it,” I said.
The guy immediately changed the subject, and I thought, Another soul saved—at least for the evening.
Most of the women at the bar looked like they’d been through one or more wars. There were only two of note, and both were riding with Pagans. One of them was white, the other Hispanic. The white chick was stunning, in a white, sleeveless undershirt that showed off her physique. She had long, sharp fingernails and wore a hat that would look perfect on an Irish cabbie; it hung on the side of her long, wavy blonde hair. Both women stood toe-to-toe with the guys and struck an attitude of “let’s just get wasted and fuck with somebody.”
Just when I thought the evening would prove to be a quiet one, the two women began to beat the shit out of each other for reasons unknown to anyone else in the bar. They threw wild punches, gouged skin with their fingernails and eventually dropped to the floor, grappling and rolling as each sought the upper hand. Both had stamina and a palpable hatred spurring them on.
The Pagans who were with these two were enjoying the spectacle too much to consider stopping it. Indeed, no one wanted it to end, and certainly the two women weren’t ready to quit. But as the fighting continued, even the Pagans decided that this battle had to stop. Two men waded in and pulled the snarling adversaries apart.
At that point, I headed outdoors for some fresh air. I’ve never smoked, and most of the bars I visited during my years as a Pagan were invariably smoke-filled. Outside, one of the North Jersey prospects was guarding our bikes against the very real possibility of a Breed attack. A similar attack had recently taken place at a nearby watering hole, so the prospect was attentive and ready for action.
As I was looking at something on my bike, an African-American man, about 30 years old, approached and asked if there was anything he could do for me. I said no and hoped he’d just leave.
“I can boost a stereo, or steal anything you want, real quick-like,” he said.
“Yeah, thanks, but I don’t want anything.”
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br /> “You wanna fuck me in the ass?” he inquired.
“No, I don’t want to fuck you in the ass, in the mouth or any fucking where.”
“You sure ’bout that? Dragon fucked my ass in Rahway [state prison] for years. He sure liked it,” the guy said.
“Good for Dragon. Now get the fuck lost.”
Before we got on the highway, we stopped to top off the gas tanks in our Harleys. Custom bikes have small gas tanks, so running out of gas is a real concern. We all filled up on premium. I was riding the last bike in line, and the station attendant asked me to pay for all of the gas he’d pumped.
“I ain’t fucking paying,” I told him.
He didn’t repeat the question, and simply let us all ride off into the night. It was better to lose a few gallons of gas than risk a beating from a bunch of Pagans.
The reality was that you had to be ruthless and not care too much about the fate of others if you rode with the Pagans. This was a club that had ordered a member to execute a highly ranked Mob soldier in front of several Philadelphia police officers. He knew the cops would witness the murder, but he shot the guy anyway. Being a member of the Pagans was all or nothing. Mere citizens were expendable. It wasn’t that citizens were hated—just that they weren’t considered any more important than a pawn in a chess game. They could be sacrificed for a greater good—at least as “good” was defined by the Pagans MC.
A few days later, I was awakened by my girlfriend, Jane, who would later become my wife. She said she’d been attacked at Marine Park in Red Bank.
Jane tearfully explained that she’d been hanging in the park with friends smoking weed when some young guys came by and demanded that she hand it over. When she refused, one of the guys slapped her in the face and took the joint. I was pissed that anyone would treat my girlfriend like that, so I grabbed my Pagan colors and car keys and headed to the park with Jane in tow.
Jersey Tough Page 18
