by George Rowe
That was good enough for my handler. After some meaningless talk, the two shook hands, and Old Joe grabbed the truck keys and headed out to the parking lot to give us some privacy.
“He’s a good man. You stick with him,” John said the moment Joe was through the door. “My dad always told me women will come and go in your life, but your true friends will be the ones who are there with you in the end. I think that fits your buddy to a tee.”
My stint as a working CI was about to begin, and John wanted to give me a crash course on how to survive in a very dangerous business. As the handler, John would be keeping tabs from a distance. But fact of the matter was, as an informant, I was pretty much on my own. When things go wrong for a CI, they can go wrong fast. By the time the cavalry arrives, there’s little to do but clean up the mess.
Informants die. That’s the nature of the beast. And that’s the risk Special Agent Carr wanted me to understand. We left the restaurant and piled into his Ford Expedition. I shouted out the window to Old Joe that we’d be back in a half hour, and off we drove.
“We need hard information, George,” John explained as we headed in the direction of San Bernardino. “And there’s no detail too small. I can’t stress how important that is. Details are what can make or break a case. Some actionable intelligence we learn tomorrow may connect up to something we get two or three months down the road. It’s like a puzzle, and if enough of that puzzle comes together, we’ve got a chance to get these guys on a RICO.”
The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act was originally intended to prosecute the Mafia, but the government expanded its use in the late 1970s to include outlaw motorcycle gangs. The Vagos were already classified as a criminal gang thanks to California’s S.T.E.P. Act, which also slapped convicted outlaws with gang enhancement penalties, effectively doubling a man’s sentence.
But under RICO, all of Green Nation could be brought to its knees. If I could gather enough indictable evidence to show a pattern of organized criminal behavior on the part of the Vagos, the leadership could very well be prosecuted and the entire club dismantled.
Problem was, proving a racketeering case in court against an outlaw motorcycle gang was no cinch.
The feds had already tried that gambit in 1979, when they indicted Sonny Barger and members of the Oakland chapter of the Hells Angels. But the prosecution was unable to prove that the Angels had conspired on an organizational level to break the law of the land. More recently, the Los Angeles field division of the ATF had gathered enough evidence against the Mongols Motorcycle Club to shut it down under RICO and have all the club’s trademarks confiscated.
But that case was overturned on appeal.
No question RICO was a powerful hammer against organized crime. But it was also powerfully hard to prosecute outlaw motorcycle clubs using that federal statute.
“Here’s what I want you to remember, George,” John explained. “It’s okay to ask questions, but stay in your comfort zone. Let it come natural. Don’t press these guys to talk. If it doesn’t feel right, it probably isn’t. So just take it slow.”
“Got it,” I said.
We arrived back at the Little Luau to find Joe snoozing in the truck on the other side of the lot. John threw his car into park and turned off the ignition.
“I want you to know I’ve brought in a task force deputy with the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department to work this case with us. An undercover guy. One of the best in the business. He’ll be out there with you.”
“How will I know him?”
“You won’t. He’ll look just like any other outlaw. But he knows who you are, and he’ll be watching your back.”
Later I’d meet a few of these undercover lawmen. And John was right. You’d never know they were cops to look at them. They looked like outlaws, rode like outlaws and drank like outlaws . . . and no outlaw was ever the wiser. They were the intel boys. They never came out, they were always under. They’d shake your hand, hop on their Harleys and ride back to the office to type their reports.
“And I’ll be there too,” John continued. “I’m sure you’ll see me around. Whatever you do, don’t fucking wave to me.”
“How ’bout this?”
I flipped him the middle finger.
John smiled, then quickly grew serious again. “Just remember what we’ve talked about. Keep things casual. And don’t forget about this guy, Daoussis. Somebody with the San Bernardino chapter knows who killed him.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
John reached into the backseat and came forward with a wooden box.
“I know how much you were looking forward to that microphone I had you wearing at the Lady Luck.” He smiled. “But I think you’ll like this even better.”
It was the recording device that would become my trusted partner for the duration of my time undercover. This wasn’t some hunk of metal from those old Mafia movies, with the recorder strapped to the chest. No, sir. This was real high-tech, science-fiction-type stuff. I had audio. I had video. George was beaming to the satellites, baby! I can’t get more specific than that; too many agents and informants are still using it in the field. Let’s just say that even if the Vagos had known what to look for, they wouldn’t have found it.
You know, on second thought—and this is for the Warlocks, Pagans, Outlaws, Mongols, Angels and all you other one percenters out there—we hide that gear up our ass, fellas.
Go fish.
I hopped out of the Expedition and headed for the truck. John called before I’d gone too far.
“Oh, hey, George. One more thing.”
I came back and leaned through the open window.
“I’ve named the operation. I’m calling it Twenty-Two Green. What do you think?”
I thought that sounded pretty cool. Look out, motherfuckers. I’ve got your color and I’ve got your number.
Operation 22 Green. Oh, yeah . . . that’s my baby.
10
Wired
The Vagos rumbled east on the I-10 through the San Gorgonio Pass, then turned north on the Twentynine Palms highway, passing beyond the mountains and into the brick-red hills of the Mojave. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, this was the same track Kilo and Rhino had followed as they’d hauled Dennis “Shorty” Daoussis in the bed of Kilo’s pickup, rolled in a carpet and headed for execution.
Hanging with the Vagos was not my idea of keeping good company, but I must admit I enjoyed running with the herd during my time undercover. Man, if you love riding motorcycles like I do, there’s nothing like screaming down a highway with a pack of Harleys rolling in tight formation, front tire a foot off the wheel of the man in front, hands high on the bars and the straight pipes clapping like thunder. It’s one hell of a head rush.
I would have enjoyed the ride even more had I not been aboard that shit-ass Touring Classic the feds stuck me with. As I shook, rattled and rolled down that desert highway, my machine was throwing off parts like a mutt shedding fleas. There goes the muffler, bye-bye taillight, off went the peg beneath my foot. The poor bastards cruising behind me were zigging, zagging and cursing as they dodged my flying debris.
But losing that rat bike one piece at a time was not my primary concern as we thundered toward Yucca Valley. Nope. I had much bigger problems—because ol’ Crash was running right beside me.
Thing is, when you were barrel-assin’ along the open road at ninety miles per hour you really wanted to trust the rider in the saddle next to you. Unfortunately, because we were both prospects, that man was usually Crash . . . and that crazy sonofabitch scared the hell out of me. The entire trip I’d been cheating my wheels ahead of his, because no way did I want to get caught running behind that uncoordinated fuck.
I was just beginning to think I was home free when, sure enough, there went Crash. I veered away sharply as he bounced off the blacktop and his Harley went somersaulting down the road, throwing off pieces of chrome and steel. It was a miracle no one else went down, because
I’d witnessed that ugly scene before. I’d watched packs with over two hundred riders suddenly fly all to pieces, men and machines tumbled and tossed like jacks across the freeway. And when something like that happened and the dust settled, it was like bloody carnage across a battlefield.
As we hauled Crash’s busted carcass off the pavement, the first word out of his mouth was “pothole.”
Bullshit. There was no fuckin’ pothole. That was just Crash doing what Crash always did best.
After the pack dusted itself off, we started north again on the highway. Just as we were approaching Yucca Valley, a shitbox sedan with missing hubcaps appeared ahead, steering close to the road’s apron to allow the horde to pass. When it came my turn, I was surprised to see John Carr behind the wheel.
His hand was raised against his chest and he was flipping me the finger.
The pack veered off the highway and started down a long dirt road that plugged straight into our destination—a biker bar out in the middle of the desert. Several Vagos chapters were there when we arrived, along with riders from the Vietnam Vets and some of the law enforcement clubs. Can’t remember for sure which ones, but I believe the Blue Knights were there.
I dismounted the Harley and was about to rest my saddle-sore ass when I heard the words I would come to dread.
“Hey, prospect!”
Some bearded asshole with Loki on his back was pointing toward a Porta Potty standing out among the rocks.
“Climb up on that shit-shed over there and sing us the prospect song!”
The Prospect Song.
Fuck.
Like I’ve said, when a patched member gives a prospect an order, you follow it—no matter how humiliating. I climbed onto a boulder, then pulled myself onto the roof of one of the portable toilets scattered throughout the property. And there, atop my magnificent Porta Potty stage, I faced an audience of two to three hundred bikers and began to sing . . .
“I am a Vagos prospect, as you can clearly see . . .”
As I sang atop that portable toilet I recall thinking that Old Joe had been right: signing up with ATF had been a really dumbass move.
That’s about when the shed began to tip.
I shifted my weight quickly, but it was already too late. Gravity had me. All of a sudden I was going one way, the shit-shed was headed the other, and what had been dumped from hundreds of bowels and bladders went splashing across the desert. The audience must’ve loved it, though, judging by the cheers and applause that followed my big finish.
I needed a fucking drink.
As the bikers cleared a wide path to the bar, I spotted a familiar face among them. It was that young sheriff from Riverside, my stalker with a badge who’d flown a helicopter all the way to Los Angeles to win me over. The lawman was trying to blend in with the crowd, but the scowl aimed my way was pretty obvious. John Carr had told the sheriff I’d decided against becoming an informant. Yet here I was riding with the Vagos, and the bloom was off the rose. I ignored my spurned lover, wiped shit from my shoes and entered the bar.
The interior was crammed shoulder to shoulder with Vagos, vets, biker cops and women—and by women I mean Vagos old ladies and chicks wearing low-cut shirts and high-cut shorts. Oh, those groupies. Guess the patch and the Harley must have been some kind of aphrodisiac that made good girls want the bad boys. I swear you could take the ugliest motherfucker on the planet, stick a patch on his back and a motorcycle under his ass, and he’d have the hottest chicks in the bar hanging off his arm. Unfortunately in the outlaw world it wasn’t uncommon for some of those young ladies to get pimped by the club. Females were little more than property to most of these guys, and they’d pass ’em around like puff pastries and chicken wings.
Over near the bar, Big Todd was engaged in conversation with a barrel-chested dude sporting thick, tattooed arms. This was Crusher, the sergeant detective from Cathedral City and president of the Vagos support club, The Green Machine. Todd waved me over, but I wasn’t prepared to mingle just yet. My recording device had yet to be activated.
Besides, Sergeant Crusher made me nervous.
My prospect application had sailed through when that crooked cop had run it for red flags—the ATF had plenty of safeguards in place—but that didn’t make me any more comfortable being around him. I was fine with Crusher busting his Mexican drug dealers and taking their money, but that fucker was part of the law enforcement fraternity, and cops talk to cops. There was always that chance—however slim—that somehow, someway, something might slip.
When I’d first mentioned Crusher to John Carr, he was surprised the sergeant and the other lawmen holding hands with the Vagos hadn’t shown up on ATF’s radar. John wanted to nail those dirty bastards in the worst way, especially Crusher. But the situation was tricky. If word got out that the sergeant was being internally investigated, the Vagos might get suspicious and start hunting for another snitch like Hammer. It was a serious operational security issue that John had yet to fully resolve.
I waved Todd off, then pushed through the packed house to the bathroom, where I waited in line for a toilet to open. Once inside the stall I activated the recording device, flushed the toilet and headed out again.
Slipping back into the crowd, I was having flashbacks to that nerve-wracking day I walked into the Lady Luck wearing that big-ass recorder strapped to my chest. But the nervousness evaporated as confidence grew. The recording device was practically undetectable, I realized, and no one was paying attention to me anyway. They couldn’t care less about George Rowe. I was just another bald-headed, tattooed sonofabitch in a room crawling with them. Before long I found myself pleasantly relaxed . . . maybe even a little bit cocky.
I headed with newfound confidence toward the bar. Crusher must have grown tired of buying Todd drinks and moved on, because Todd was looking around for his next victim. I swear, I don’t think that sonofabitch ever bought a round in his life. He couldn’t hold a job, so his hands were always in someone else’s pocket. Especially mine. I was Todd’s personal ATM, constantly spitting cash. And it was all withdrawals, man, never a deposit. For every buck that went out, not a damn cent came back. In the old days I would have backed a U-Haul to Big Todd’s front door and cleaned house.
“Hey, Big George. Got twenty bucks I can borrow?”
“Make mine a Corona,” I told him, handing over the Jackson.
I scanned the crowded bar as I waited on my beer and spotted Terry the Tramp sitting at a table in the far corner with some of the national officers. Sitting next to the international P was his secretary-treasurer, a burly Chicano with the name Ta Ta stitched over the right pocket of his cut. Ta Ta was a tough thirty-nine-year-old hombre who wouldn’t hesitate to beat down another patch if he had it coming—even one of his own. But as far as I could tell, the man also had respect for the civilian world. At one of the big national runs, some no-class Vago had ripped off a vendor selling custom knives. Ta Ta ordered every patch to buy a knife from that civilian and apologize on behalf of the brother who’d ripped him off. I think if Ta Ta had been the man in charge, and known how Big Roy and his thugs were harassing the people of Hemet, he might have pulled their patches.
“Here you go, prospect.”
Big Todd handed the bottle across to me—without change—and I wandered off toward Tramp’s table for a closer look at “God.” Standing guard over the club officers was Rhino. I felt that giant’s gaze boring into me as I approached, but I avoided eye contact and found a wall to lean on. I was just close enough to overhear conversation at the table and figured the recording device would pick it up. John Carr told me the thing could snatch a whisper from across the room.
As I sipped beer and pretended not to listen, a burst of laughter from the table announced the arrival of a massive biker wearing a greasy T-shirt that read I SUPPORT THE VAGOS. This man-giant who strode from the crowd was probably late fifties, well over six feet tall and three hundred pounds, with a fat, bushy beard and hair flowing to the middle of his bac
k.
Tramp shouted at him, “Hey, Bubba!” and stood to greet the big biker.
“How you been, Tramp?” boomed Bubba as the two clasped hands and hugged.
“When you comin’ into the green?” Tramp chided him.
“Yeah, brother, you need to take a full patch,” added Ta Ta from his seat.
“No disrespect, you know I love you guys, but that’s not my bag,” said the big biker, who then threw out his arms and said, “I want to ride the way I want to ride, when I want to ride.”
“Fuckin’ A,” laughed Ta Ta as he clasped Bubba’s meaty hand, adding, “no disrespect.”
By asking around I learned Bubba was well known and well liked among the one percenters, just a friendly ol’ bastard who loved to ride motorcycles. The big biker was tight with practically every stripe of Southern California outlaw: Vagos, Hells Angels, Mongols, Devil’s Disciples—completely color blind when it came to the patch.
As Bubba bullshitted with Tramp I noticed Rhino watching me more closely, so I stopped holding up the wall and pushed my way back toward the bar. Big Todd was gone when I arrived, no doubt chasing his next free drink, but there was someone sitting at the far end that interested me: a Vago named Sammy who rode with the San Bernardino crew. Sammy was good buddies with North, the Hemet chapter’s sergeant at arms, who was fencing stolen property for his brother from Berdoo.
I greeted him with a friendly “Hey, Sammy, how you doing, man?”
He was already half in the bag and didn’t seem to recognize me at first. I squeezed in beside his stool and slapped a fraternal hand on his shoulder.
“It’s George Rowe from Hemet, man.”
“Oh, sure,” said Sammy. “How you doin’, brother?”
“I’m good. Heard you guys had some excitement in Berdoo, huh?”
“That right?”
“Yeah, I heard Hulk got busted.”
Sammy turned away and resumed drinking.
“Don’t know much about that.”
