It didn’t take long before I found a guy who not only confirmed my girlfriend’s story but offered to give me the thief’s home address. He even offered to show me the way there if he could just hang out and watch the action, which I agreed to.
With turn-by-turn directions shouted out by my new buddy, it took only a few minutes to reach the place on the busy Route 520 in Red Bank. I banged loudly on the front door using a clenched fist—what’s known in karate as a hammer fist.
As soon as the guy started to open the door, I hit it hard with a front thrust kick that sent the door flying inward and propelled the thief backward into the middle of his living room. He landed on his ass and immediately curled up into the fetal position, afraid to even start something with me.
Jane and my new buddy from the park followed me in and closed the front door behind us. A black Labrador retriever crouched under a coffee table, barking loudly but staying put. I threatened to kick the dog, though I never would have followed through on that threat. Dogs and other animals have nothing to fear from me; it’s men that can get me pissed off.
I swore at the thief, who remained curled up on the floor, and landed some kicks and punches on him. The truth was, I had no intention of seriously beating the guy or leaving any lasting injuries. My plan was to inflict some damage on his belongings and send a strong message that violence against my girlfriend amounted to violence against the Pagans MC, which would not be tolerated.
One punch bloodied the guy’s lip. I ordered him to kiss Jane’s feet, but quickly abandoned that plan as blood dripped onto her boots. My next stop was his kitchen, where I tossed dishes onto the floor and pulled some stuff out of the refrigerator, creating an instant feast for the dog, who’d decided that we weren’t so bad after all.
I was about to use a front snap kick and take out what appeared to be a new and expensive console TV when the offender crawled with remarkable agility to the front of the screen and begged me on his knees to leave the TV untouched. He got his wish and received a kick to his solar plexus instead. I am certain he thought this was a good trade-off.
I promised he would be spared any further contact with the Pagan Nation if he refrained from slapping my girlfriend and didn’t contact the police, two requests that he vowed to comply with.
We left a couple of minutes later, and I dropped my enthusiastic new friend off back at the park. He was thrilled to have been able to be an observer and seemed to admire me for teaching the thief a lesson.
“You guys do this shit all the time, man?” he asked.
I sagely nodded my head. “Yeah, but it’s only taking care of business, man.”
Several weeks later, Slater invited me along on another trip to Long Island to visit Oouch, the Pagan president. This time, the plan was to meet him at his home. Slater borrowed a customer’s blue Volkswagen Bug. Jake always had a stable of vehicles available to him, thanks to his auto body shop business in Atlantic Highlands. He routinely “borrowed” his customer’s vehicles, and the car we were in was one of them.
What I didn’t know was that Slater had made a deal to buy two ounces of methamphetamine from the club, which he would then re-sell in New Jersey. I was simply along for the ride as he made the pickup. Selling drugs was one way that some club members were able to afford their lives of leisure and custom bikes. I just wasn’t into that kind of work, though I, too, was looking for a new way to generate some cash. I had grown tired of working for the home builder, even though keeping his men in line wasn’t all that difficult or time-consuming.
The directions to Oouch’s home were probably straightforward. But Slater “got lost” along the way, and we spent more than an hour and a half driving around Long Island as he searched for Oouch’s house. Eventually we got there. Looking back, I’d guess that Slater simply wanted to ensure that I didn’t know the precise location of Oouch’s house; the trick worked, and I had no idea where we were.
The ranch house was on a wooded lot. Slater and I were greeted by Oouch at the front door and invited inside the comfortable home. Several other Pagans were in the place, and Slater disappeared into the back of the house for hours. I sat and chatted with Oouch for part of the time, making casual conversation about the Pagan Nation. We talked about the club’s history and recent expansion, and some of the other outlaw clubs, too. He smiled kindly at my naiveté and was an adroit speaker. I made sure to never ask penetrating questions in any regard; the more you knew, the more you put yourself in danger.
As the sun rose the next morning, Slater and I were headed back to New Jersey, two big guys in one very little car. Later that day, I circled back to Slater’s house and visited him and his very attractive, dark-haired girlfriend, Jean. It was only then that I learned that the leader of the Sandy Hook Pagans had received on consignment a couple of ounces of methamphetamine made and produced by the club during our visit to Oouch’s place.
Unfortunately for Jake, he knew relatively little about drugs other than the green that he used from time to time and the powders that he snorted, and he had inadvertently left the meth in direct sunlight. When he awoke later in the day, he found that he had two bags of useless fluid. I never spoke to Slater again about the matter, but I’m sure he had to make good on the deal and pay his fellow Pagans for the destroyed meth.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE WOMAN IN THE WHITE DRESS
Looking for a way to make some quick money, I started thinking about doing collections work as the muscle for a loan shark in Bayshore, New Jersey. Donning club colors and asking people to pay what they owed plus the vigorish, or “vig” (interest), was a very easy way to make money, as I’d learned from the Philadelphia Pagans.
In Philly, there was a very large and nasty group of Pagans who were already working with some elements of the Mob, doing collections. Pagans were almost overqualified for collecting money from deadbeats who were stupid enough, or desperate enough, to borrow money from illegitimate enterprises. Intimidating people who borrowed from the Mob was child’s play for the Philadelphia Pagans. More broadly, Pagans were known as nomadic killers; they were hard to locate, with clubhouses that were not openly visible and locations that changed in an instant. Pagan colors, unlike those for some of the other outlaw clubs, also didn’t show area affiliations; there was nothing on the vest to indicate whether the individual was from New York or Philadelphia, for example.
Through acquaintances, I’d heard of a guy in Bayshore who needed muscle, Carl Redler. The guy dressed like a bum and lived with his elderly mother on the second floor of a cheap motel. But he was remarkably intelligent and worth tens of millions of dollars. Heavyset and standing about five foot 10, he sported cheap jackets that resembled leather but were made from polyester. He kept his dark-colored hair slicked back, like the Fonz. During the day, you could find him in a bar in Bayshore—one of the many properties he owned—where he’d happily cash anyone’s paycheck, no questions asked. He was also willing to loan money to anyone who asked.
But Redler’s easygoing demeanor was severely challenged by anyone who dared to fall behind on his payments. Screwing this guy on the money you’d borrowed—even the vig on the amount—was foolhardy at best.
My work for him was perhaps even easier than my construction job. It usually didn’t take any more than a very nasty slap, shove or verbal threat of mayhem to collect on past-due payments. So I made enough money to keep my bike in good repair and pay for a round or two of drinks when needed. I was always bewildered by the guys who were behind on their payments to Redler—including the gamblers, who had this never-ending belief that they were going to hit the jackpot any day.
Just as the summer of 1977 began, a nightclub called the Playground opened in the busy little city of Long Branch. Attached to a motel, the bar was across the street from the beach and boardwalk, and booked the hottest nightclub shows on the shore. It offered everything a Pagan could want—gorgeous girls, complete with free
motel rooms right next door; unlimited inexpensive drinks for anyone wearing colors; and needed visibility for the club.
The manager somehow thought he’d end up dead if he didn’t immediately agree to all of our requests. It wasn’t true (I would have known of any threat against him, as sergeant-at-arms for the club) but it kept the drinks flowing and the motel rooms available when needed.
We were ecstatic at the find, and we quickly realized that we needed to take steps to ensure that we remained on good terms with everyone, which meant that there would be no brawls or activities that had the potential to destroy the club’s interior. Over time, the Playground became our place, and Pagans from other more distant clubs would often travel to Long Branch just to hang out with us.
Getting ready to head out to Long Branch during the summer of 1977.
The Sandy Hook Pagans became part of the scene at the club, and we got along with the management, bouncers, patrons and even the band members who played there. Our many visits to the club helped solidify the perception of our chapter as “the Hollywood Pagans,” cruising the Jersey Shore, hooking up with hot women and hanging at upscale clubs. I don’t recall a single act of violence by the Pagans at the Playground. When the itch for a street fight came on strong, we simply moved to a different venue.
The woman in the white dress stands out among all the chicks that we hung with at the Playground. Led by Jake Slater as usual, we happened to get to the club early that Thursday evening and were having a round of brews before the band went to the stage. A woman walked in who was so staggeringly hot that she had the attention of every Pagan in attendance plus all the other guys in the nightclub. She wore a white dress with light-reflecting trim that showed off her fabulous shape, and a pair of sexy shoes with stiletto heels.
I looked away from her briefly and sipped at my bottled beer, trying not to get caught staring in her direction. Then I felt a light hand on my shoulder and turned to see her standing next to me and looking into my eyes.
“Chuck, is that you?” she asked.
Stunned, I quickly realized that I’d graduated from high school with this girl. It was Bridgette, who had once been my best friend’s girlfriend. Back then, I’d felt that I had about as much of a chance scoring with her as being asked by the Russians to become their next cosmonaut. Now, wearing outlaw colors, I was in a different position.
Bridgette kissed me on the lips, and we chatted about our pasts for a few minutes. I caught Slater glancing in my direction; his look telegraphed shock that I knew this chick well enough to get a kiss.
“Chuck, I like to make it with more than one guy,” Bridgette said, clearly no longer the girl I knew in high school. “I just know you have some friends.”
It took me a second or two to react to her bombshell proposal. “Would this cat and that guy be alright?” I asked, pointing to a couple of other Pagans at the bar.
“Oh yeah, your place or mine?” she said.
“Well, it just so happens I have a standing arrangement for a room in the back, in the motel,” I replied. “Grab a drink and I’ll set it up. This is Jake. He can entertain you for a minute.”
I beelined it to the motel lobby, where I found both the nightclub manager and a female front desk manager. I asked for my usual room upstairs.
“No can do,” came his sheepish reply.
“What the fuck. Why not?”
“Convention weekend. Booked solid. I am really, really sorry,” he replied with a fearful stutter.
“Who the fuck’s in my room?”
“I checked them in,” the female front desk manager offered.
I walked behind the front desk and grabbed the spare key to my room off the rack. It was time for me to handle this personally. “They are going to have to find another place to park their asses, whoever the fuck they are,” I said before heading toward the stairs.
“I don’t think you’ll have a problem,” the front desk manager said with a sheepish grin.
“I saw what you lined up, and believe me, I understand. But what are you going to do? They paid cash for the night,” the club manager shouted at my back.
“I’ll deal with this. Not to worry.”
Upstairs, I banged on the door to my room and announced, “It’s the police. Open up.”
I heard some hushed voices in the room and someone scurrying around. Seconds later, the door opened. A man with a towel wrapped around his waist stood there looking blankly at me. He took a few steps back as he realized that I wasn’t a police officer after all, but a Pagan wearing colors.
I handed the man $50, told him there’d been a mix-up about the room and said that he would have to leave. In those days, $50 was plenty to find a good room, and he seemed willing to accept both the money and my order to leave. Then I noticed a man pretending to be asleep in the bed, the covers pulled up to his chin. What the fuck was going on here?
I pushed aside the guy in the towel, strode into the room and yanked the covers off the bed—revealing a guy dressed in lingerie.
Now I better understood the front desk manager’s comment about me likely not having a problem getting the room’s occupants to vacate. I repeated my order to get out of the room, now. Both men scrambled to comply, tossing on street clothes and stuffing their things into overnight bags. Seconds later, they were on their way toward the door.
I grabbed the $50 back from towel man as he headed through the door. They would be on their own for motel accommodations.
I stopped at the front desk to tell the manager that the room was now mine, and that I’d appreciate it if someone could change the sheets and give us some new towels. Next, I walked back into the Playground, collected Bridgette and my two buddies, and went back upstairs.
AIDS didn’t exist at the time, and many sexual mores had been kicked to the curb during the ’70s. Women had easy access to effective contraception, and the mood on the street was “just do it, baby.” Being a Pagan truly enhanced my ability to be with certain types of women; it also shut the door to other types. The vibe between me and a woman was established very quickly. Plenty of women were turned off by the biker image. But there were plenty for whom the bad-boy biker held serious appeal. It made little difference to me at the time which way things went. The Jersey Shore was, and perhaps still is, a target-rich environment.
No doubt, there were Pagans for whom group sex was common. But that wasn’t the case for the Sandy Hook chapter; we simply didn’t roll that way. I also carried as baggage the image of that German girl being raped, and anything that vaguely reminded me of that scene was a nightmare.
But any deep-seated repulsion I had for pulling out my junk in close proximity to other males melted in Bridgette’s presence. She looked even better unclothed than she had downstairs. The four of us fucked and sucked for what seemed like an eternity. Then there was a knock on the hotel room door.
I pulled my pants on and walked out onto the second-floor landing. It was the manager.
“Does your, uh, girlfriend have a boyfriend, about six foot three, with a black beard?” he asked.
“Hold on,” I said, returning to the room to ask Bridgette.
“Yeah, so?” she replied.
“Yeah, that’s him,” I told the manager. “Why?”
“Well, he is on his way up. He seems pissed off.”
I walked back into the room and shut the door. “A good time has been had by all, but why don’t we let these two lovebirds work it out?”
“Fine with me,” Bridgette replied as the door crashed open and her mad boyfriend walked in. He seemed ready for a fight—until he got a look at the three outlaw bikers standing around. Then his attitude seemed to change.
“It’s cool, guys. Go have a beer,” Bridgette said. “I’ll deal with it. Really, he’s no problem.”
She kissed us all and we said our farewells as her boyfriend stood quietly in a
corner of the room, hands on his hips, looking down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL
I never did learn all the details of the story about “Boo,” the member of the Asbury Park Pagans who had his colors stolen by the Breed on Staten Island. But I knew the basics: Boo had been riding his Harley across Staten Island when some members of the Breed spotted him and gave chase. Boo pulled off the highway and ducked into a bar, hoping to slip out the back and escape—but got caught in the process. They beat the shit out of him. When they were done, they left him for dead and rode off with his colors.
The Breed must have done some ferocious job on the guy, because he was a scary motherfucker without compassion for anyone or anything—with the possible exception of the satanic dog he often rode with.
Jake was furious and immediately hatched a plan to get Boo’s colors back by abducting a member of the Breed and holding him for ransom. The actual kidnapping took place a few days later, outside a motorcycle show in Asbury Park—nominally Pagan territory, and a dangerous place for the Breed to be hanging out. But a Breed member called “Thunderstorm” was there. A bunch of the guys confronted him and forced him at shotgun-point into a van, where he was trussed up like a deer for a ride into the New Jersey countryside.
As sergeant-at-arms, I was summoned to the isolated cottage in Colts Neck where Thunderstorm was being held by Jake and five other Pagans. When I got there, the guy was trussed up, blindfolded and beaten, lying on his side in the cottage’s bathroom tub. Two of the guys were standing guard over him with the aforementioned shotgun and a bowie knife, and several of them were talking about various ways to torture our prisoner including skinning him alive and burning him to death.
I didn’t know or care about Thunderstorm, and I knew that at least a couple of the guys in the room were ready to do whatever Jake wanted—even if it meant being involved in a murder. But there were two other issues that seemed relevant. If we killed Thunderstorm, we wouldn’t have anything to trade for Boo’s colors. And if we tortured or killed a member of the Breed, the fighting between the clubs would become lethal, and any one of us could wind up dead.
Jersey Tough Page 19
