Jersey Tough

by Wayne Bradshaw

  Jake was still furious, and I saw him throw a beer mug as I walked back in.

  Someone—most likely one of the other bar patrons—had called the cops, and several marked units, red lights flashing, rolled up out front. Rather than come in, the cops stood outside and one of them used a loud hailer to order all of us to come out. It was a bizarre move, and said something about the timidity of the Atlantic Highlands Police, or at least some of its members.

  Jake looked at me and motioned for me to join him. It was clear he wanted to fight the cops, which struck me as a profoundly stupid idea. The two of us walked outside, along with about six other tough guys who’d been hanging at the bar. All of us were unarmed.

  The Atlantic Highlands police retreated a few steps back toward their cars. One of them shouted to Slater that he couldn’t go around beating up people and busting up a bar.

  “Fuck you,” Slater countered.

  The whole scene was ridiculous, like something out of a cheap movie with a horrible screenplay. The cops had no plan to deal with us and seemed unwilling to take us on. While we contemplated our next move, several Middletown Police units rolled up. Someone had called for mutual aid.

  The men from Middletown jumped out of their cars with “hats and bats”—wearing helmets and carrying riot batons—and spoiling for a fight. Jake shot me a glance, and we watched as men from both departments gathered between two of the marked units and talked. We couldn’t tell what was going on, but we heard raised and angry voices from the Middletown guys. Then the Middletown police returned to their cars, turned their emergency lights off and drove away.

  Two of the men from Atlantic Highlands walked over and negotiated with Jake. Eventually he agreed to leave the bar and go into police headquarters the following day to be arrested. The rest of the guys with us quietly dispersed into the darkness.

  The next day, I headed over to the Pagans clubhouse to meet up with Jake. On the way, I was stopped by an Atlantic Highlands cop who arrested me for aggravated assault. The same charge was filed against Jake. We were arraigned in night court that evening before a large crowd of locals.

  “Take them to the county jail,” Judge Norman Peer said. “There will be no overnighters in my jail.”

  The cops treated us like mass murderers with huge bounties on our heads. We were both trussed up with large leather belts around our waists. Each belt had a big ring on the front, and they threaded the handcuffs through the ring so that we had very restricted motion with our hands. Jake and I also had to loop our arms together, which meant that we had to move in concert. Even a simple action like getting into the back seat of a car was difficult.

  None other than the Atlantic Highlands chief of police and a patrolman drove Jake and me to the Monmouth County Correctional Institution in Freehold, a concrete bunker-type building with heavy rolls of concertina wire surrounding it. There, we were processed in—checked for contraband, stripped bare to shower in front of the guards, hosed down with some kind of disinfecting wash. Next, we were given khaki prison garb and thin, plastic-covered foam mattresses.

  We were taken to a large dormitory-style area that housed about 60 inmates, all clad in the same khaki shirts and pants. In the corner were one showerhead and tile drain, one sink and one open toilet. Those were the only facilities for use by all 60 of us in that part of the jail. There was a table in the middle of the room that held the remains of a board game and a few copies of Woman’s Day magazine (there were no women, of course, in the unit). Otherwise, there was absolutely nothing to do, with no TV and no books available to us. The building was a shithole, dark and dank with an unhealthy smell that seemed to emanate from the moisture dripping from the walls. As Pagans, we had nothing to fear from any of the men there. But others would likely have found the place on par with Attica or the Louisiana State Penitentiary, albeit on a much smaller scale.

  As soon as I sat down on my bunk to contemplate theorems on quantum turbulence, or when the fuck was I going to eat next, my name was called. I had to go see some jail official about a paperwork question. I was taken to a room and left alone with four African-Americans who were also apparently there to see the same person. Two of the bigger prisoners stared at me with looks of pure malevolence. Would I meet their stare, or avoid it by glancing to the floor? How I reacted would determine how they’d treat me.

  Two of the men’s names were called, and suddenly I was alone with one of the guys who had been staring at me, and a smaller guy who seemed indifferent to what was going on. I stared back at the larger prisoner, and we locked eyes. He smirked, showing a couple of gold teeth.

  Another name was called, and then I was alone with Gold Teeth. He walked up to me and continued trying to stare me down. Without a word, I head-butted him, bringing my full weight onto the bridge of his nose. As he staggered back, I brought my right knee up into his balls.

  Stunned, Gold Teeth staggered back and tried to maintain his balance. The guy had been so confident in his ability to intimidate people that he’d allowed himself to be a soft target. I could easily have punched him in the throat and killed him. A guard came to the door and called my name. I never saw Gold Teeth again, and he never ratted me out to the corrections officers.

  After a fitful sleep, Jake and I were bailed out the next day.

  Plotnikova must have given a more detailed description of what happened at Joey Miles to investigators at some point, because the charges against me were eventually dropped. I can only assume that he realized he would have been dead that night if I hadn’t stepped in to stop Slater from beating him. Slater was later found guilty of multiple charges against him in connection with the assault and sentenced to 10 years in prison.

  Later that summer, the owners of the Playground nightclub in Long Branch decided that they’d had enough of the Sandy Hook Pagans and kicked us out. From what we heard, one of the investors in the club had gone to see how business was doing and was pissed off to see that there were a bunch of horny, thirsty outlaw bikers hanging out there with their Harleys parked out front.

  The owners left it to the club’s manager to explain that Pagan colors were no longer allowed. My heart was pretty much covered in leather at that stage of my life, but I can still remember how terrified the man looked as he told Jake and me that we were no longer welcomed there. Neither Jake nor I really gave a shit about the club anymore anyway. Fearful that he’d be beaten or worse, the manager even offered to lock our colors in the club’s safe. We declined and left without incident. There were plenty of other bars on the Jersey Shore.

  Soon afterwards, the Orchid Lounge in Asbury Park also became off-limits to us. For a while, members of the Kingsmen Motorcycle Club had been able to serve as peacekeepers between us and the bar’s 100 percent African-American patrons. But many of those patrons were armed and had done time; they were tough guys, too, and knew how to play this game.

  One night, about 10 of us roared up to the Orchid on our Harleys, bent on an evening of hard drinking. As soon as we got off our bikes, the club’s bouncers told us to fuck off. Jake and I stood by our bikes, playing it cool and considering our next moves. Some of the other guys casually walked around the parking lot and picked up bottles and other make-shift weapons.

  Seconds later, an alcohol-fueled group of men who clearly weren’t intimidated by our colors emerged from the bar. They were hot and ready for a fight. Some of them carried bottles, too, and I was certain that some were armed with knives. I couldn’t see any guns, at least not from where I stood.

  Both sides started shouting obscenities at each other, and a large piece of cement ricocheted off one of our bikes. Police sirens ripped through the air—lots of them, and from different directions. Weapons immediately clattered to the ground, and the angry mob we faced quickly melted away. Some went back into the bar, while others disappeared down the street. The bouncers shouted at us to get the fuck out of town before the cops arrived. The sirens
were growing louder by the second, and we knew that it wouldn’t be long before the first officers got there. We hopped on our bikes, kick-started them and took off.

  As I rode north along the waterfront, a cool breeze blew through my hair. There was still a piece of me that enjoyed being out with the guys, riding where and when we wanted. I had no responsibilities in life and liked it that way. But the steady diet of violence was eating away at me; I knew that I had to either make a change or accept that this was my life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  BURNED BUT NOT BROKEN

  Jake Slater and I, along with some other members of the club, had started hanging out at an Asbury Park club called the Alamo, where a new blues-rock vocalist and guitarist from Wilmington, Delaware, was playing—George Thorogood. Located in a converted two-story residence, the Alamo was about a quarter mile from the city’s oceanfront boardwalk. Two bouncers flanked the front door, and a long bar ran down the right-hand side of the first floor. There was a stage at the far end of the bar for live acts, and a TV over the counter that was used for showing old boxing films. We tried to keep a somewhat low-key presence there, so we seldom wore our Pagan colors when the Alamo was our destination. But, colors or no colors, Jake drew attention wherever he went.

  One night, we got word that another outlaw motorcycle gang was going to the same club incognito. Hells Angels, Outlaws, Bandidos and other outlaw biker gangs were not welcome in any of Asbury Park’s clubs. Asbury Park was Pagan territory, and it was rare for another club to challenge us. When another gang came into Pagan territory, it was up to the local club’s members to take care of business. It was a simple, and oftentimes brutal, gang rule that left some bikers with permanent scars, or worse.

  Three of us—Jake, another biker I knew only as Vinnie and I—decided to go to the Alamo to see if the rumor about outsiders coming into town was true. Short in stature, Vinnie didn’t look particularly threatening. But the well-used buck knife that hung from his thick leather belt told another story of frequent combat with other men; Vinnie was a skillful knife fighter. His arms were covered with spiderweb tattoos, and his bug eyes gave him a rather odd appearance, like that of a malevolent lemur. Oddly, Vinnie was also known for always showing up on time; he kept his watch 10 minutes ahead of the actual time.

  Soon after we walked through the door to the Alamo, we noticed five legit-looking bikers giving us the once-over. I couldn’t tell if they were Hells Angels, Warlocks or Breed. But they weren’t weekend warriors; they were real. Both sides kept it peaceful inside the club. Since things were quiet, at least for the moment, I began chatting up a blonde at the bar. Shortly before closing time, the five mystery bikers quietly walked out. Jake and Vinnie followed them. I walked out a few seconds later, after saying goodnight to the woman.

  By the time I cleared the door, a full-scale street brawl was already underway as Vinnie and Jake fought with the gang of five. There was diagonal parking out in front of the Alamo that was normally packed with cars and people. But at this late hour, the parking spots and tree-lined street were empty—and that’s where the fight was happening.

  Vinnie pulled his buck knife from its sheath and slashed one of the mystery bikers across the face. Jake grabbed a piece of a wooden barricade—the kind used by police for crowd control—and fiercely swung it at two of the others, taking them both down. Though unarmed, I ran into the fight, intent on taking out one of the two bikers still standing. Dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans, this dude wasn’t particularly big. But he looked like a tough guy, a thug, and I got the sense that he knew how to use the long buck knife in his right hand. Calm and focused, he stood staring at me.

  As soon as I came within striking distance, he lunged at me with the knife, aiming for my face. I jerked my body back to avoid the thrust, just as one of the other bikers careened into my shoulder and fell to the side. I threw an adrenaline-laced overhand right that caught my attacker on the bridge of his nose. The impact caused his nose to virtually explode, shattering the soft cartilage and sending blood everywhere.

  My attacker lunged at me again, but his move was slow and off-balance—he was disoriented and in pain after my blow to his nose. I grabbed his right wrist and yanked the knife away from him as he wobbled on unsteady legs. Shifting my grip on the knife handle, I slashed backward across his upper chest and to my left. The biker was now bleeding profusely from both his nose and his chest. He lifted his arm to wipe at the blood dripping from his chin before dropping into a crouch. Suddenly, he got knocked into me as Jake and another bloodied combatant continued fighting nearby.

  The stunned biker and I grappled, tripped and fell to the street. He landed on top of me, and I could feel the warm blood from his nose running onto my face and chest. I frantically bucked and pushed him off me. The man had no fight left at this point, and he collapsed onto his side. He tried to get up but fell. Slowly, he staggered to his feet, still bleeding profusely from his nose and torso, and backed away from me. His fight was over. I glanced over at Vinnie and saw that his opponent was lying on the street and also bleeding heavily.

  Jake, Vinnie and I scanned the scene and shared quick looks at each other. The fight was over. The five mystery bikers were either lying in the street or quietly skulking away from the scene. We knew it was time to leave before the boys in blue arrived and started asking questions.

  The three of us hopped into a car Jake had “borrowed” from one of his customers; we knew it would need some serious cleaning to get all the blood out. From what I’d been told, Jake never got complaints from clients about blood stained-interiors or other issues.

  There was no joyous celebration of our decisive victory. We were spent and coming down from a high that only people in certain lifestyles and occupations experience. This was grim stuff, and any loud bravado about it would have been unwise.

  We drove north along the Jersey Shore, passing through Long Branch and Monmouth Beach before finally arriving back at our club’s headquarters in Atlantic Highlands about 45 minutes later. Only the three of us were there that night. I grabbed a hose and used it to get all the blood and bodily fluids off my face, arms and clothes. When I finally went to sleep that night, it was as if I had slipped into a coma.

  At one time, I had found that sort of street fight truly exhilarating. Now it left me feeling cold and empty. There could be no real reason for this shit. I knew that the hard-core older members of the club still thrived on fighting. But I felt like my fighting days were done. It didn’t feel like another night on the other side of life. It felt like muerte, death.

  Later that week, four of us got together on the street outside that club in Asbury Park—Jake, me and a couple of guys who’d ridden down from Pennsylvania—to talk about dealing with the offending club’s trespass into Pagan territory. We’d heard that a bunch of guys from the same gang, a war party, had gone back to the Alamo the very next night, looking for trouble. No question, the Sandy Hook Pagans needed to do something to kick the mystery bikers’ asses out of town. The hard-core cats we met for this meeting were old-school: three guys who were likely in their 30s but looked at least a decade older. I was just 22 at the time. The men had no apparent sense of compassion for anyone or anything not connected to the Pagan Nation. Their gap-toothed smiles seemed devoid of mirth. They were killers, pure and simple.

  Since we’d received no assistance in the brawl from the staff and regulars in the nightclub, no one felt that we owed them anything. The discussion turned ugly real quick. Someone brought up the idea of shooting a grenade into the club. There was no real concern for any collateral damage that might occur—like, say, the death of the blond woman I’d been chatting with. But this wasn’t the time for polite conversation. For the Sandy Hook Pagans, this was a time to get the job done. I wondered if they were really serious about the rocket-propelled grenade.

  “Are we talking about some Chi-Com shit, like an RPG, M203, LAWS rocket or what? Maybe a
n M79?” I asked.

  The looks I got were, in a word, withering.

  “If you know so fucking much, you can be the shooter,” one of the guys said.

  This was no place for arguing the pros and cons of this attack on a nightclub in the heart of New Jersey. Not only were these guys serious, but they actually wanted me to be the one with my finger on the trigger. I’d trained with some of those weapons in the army, and I knew what they could do. There wouldn’t be much left of the nightclub, or the people in it.

  I said nothing, and we rode our Harleys out of town that night without taking any immediate action. But I’d already made up my mind. I wasn’t going to do this, regardless of the personal consequences. I had drawn a mental line in the sand and would go no further. It was time for me to end my involvement with the Pagans. I just couldn’t get past the idea of the collateral damage in the nightclub, of killing nameless and faceless people that I didn’t know. To continue wearing my colors meant either an extended stay in prison or death.

  I had no compunction whatsoever about taking down another biker. That was just part of the life. But the people at the Alamo were just ordinary people. They were the innocents.

  I knew that continuing down the road as a Pagan was certain to end very badly. If I could survive leaving, the possibilities were not so bad. I had no criminal convictions, though some charges were still pending. Simply disappearing from New Jersey wasn’t an option; I didn’t have the money to leave. I was seriously alone, with no allies save my own stubbornness. I felt like the nation state of Israel—surrounded and dwarfed by enemies who would revel in my death. I had no doubt that if I left, a Pagan war party would be coming for me. If that was the case, I would be in either the emergency room or the morgue.

  At the time, I didn’t really fear an extended stay in jail, either. I knew how to take care of myself, and I figured that I’d probably be with some other Pagans anyway. My decision to leave, which meant turning in my colors to Jake, wasn’t all that courageous, but it was necessary. I knew full well that you couldn’t just leave the Pagans without some penalty. I had heard tales of quitters receiving a goodbye beating accompanied by a RICO-like property confiscation. The beatings were severe and victims would often wear the results on their faces and bodies forever. To make matters worse, I wasn’t just a soldier in the Pagans, I was the Sandy Hook chapter’s sergeant-at-arms, responsible for enforcing the club’s rules.