by Jay Dobyns
For Mom, Dad, Gwen, Dale, and Jack—you are my heroes.
And for Jaime, without whom this book would not have been possible
Contents
Bikers, Cops, and Motorcycle Clubs Involved in Operations Riverside and Black Biscuit
Note to the Reader
PART I. THE END
1. Birdcalls
PART II. THE BEGINNING
2. My sucking chest wound
3. “You’re looking at the loves of my life is what you’re looking at.”
4. Hoedown at Harrah’s
5. Black Biscuit BBQ
6. Rudy wanted to know where I did my time
PART III. THE MIDDLE
7. Too broke for Sturgis, where Timmy learned the fine art of fetching sauerkraut
8. Jesus Hates a Pussy
9. First night in Mesa
10. I wanna what?
11. Why’d Jack give me that rock?
12. Teaching Teacher
13. Feeding Smitty his cake
14. “Fuck your guns!”
15. Good-bye, Carlos
16. We want you
17. Gimme a B! Gimme an I! Gimme an R! Gimme a D!
18. Five years in the desert
19. Arresting Rudy Kramer
20. Hello, JJ
21. Pep talk
22. “Motherfucker, if I ever see you in this town again I will fucking bury you in the desert where no one will ever fucking find you.”
23. Inhale … Exhale … Inhale … Exhale …
24. Jingle bells, Batman smells, etc.
25. The Solo temporaries
26. Will you be mine?
27. “9-1-1! 9-1-1! Get out of the house!”
28. The Iron Skillet
29. “Look, lady, it’s not like I don’t give a fuck what you’re saying, but I don’t give a fuck what you’re saying.”
30. Hoover’s hit
31. No more Solos
32. Big Lou and Gayland Hammack run some game
33. “Get me that brown mustard, not that yellow shit.”
PART IV. THE END, AGAIN
34. Hydroxycut highway
35. Bottom rockers are us
36. Call to arms
37 ….
38. Hate and money
39. The bust
Epilogue
Where Are They Now?
Plates
Author’s Note
Glossary
Acknowledgments
Bikers, Cops, and Motorcycle Clubs Involved in Operations Riverside and Black Biscuit
Black Biscuit Task Force Members and Associates by Agency (alphabetical by last name)
Note: The men and women listed below are the principal players found in the text. The Acknowledgments section at the end of the book contains a comprehensive list of officers involved with Black Biscuit.
ATF
Chris Bayless, special agent, aka “Chrisser”
Carlos Canino, special agent, aka “Los”
Vince Cefalu, special agent, aka “Vinnie”
John Ciccone, special agent
Greg Cowan, special agent, aka “Sugarbear”
Jay Dobyns, special agent, aka “Bird”
Alan Futvoye, special agent, aka “Footy”
Steve Gunderson, special agent, aka “Gundo”
Daniel Machonis, group supervisor, aka “Mach One”
Jenna Maguire, special agent, aka “JJ”
Tom Mangan, special agent, aka “Teabag”
Joe Slatalla, special agent, aka “Slats”
Jesse Summers, special agent, aka “Summer Breeze”
OTHER LAW ENFORCEMENT
Gayland Hammack, sergeant, Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department
William Long, detective, Phoenix Police Department, aka “Timmy”
Shawn Wood, sergeant, Arizona Department of Public Safety, aka “Woody”
ATF INFORMANTS
Pops (given name not provided)
Michael Kramer, Hells Angels member at Mesa, Arizona, and San Fernando Valley, California, charters, aka “Mesa Mike”
Rudolph Kramer, Solo Angeles member, aka “Rudy” (no relation to Michael Kramer)
Hells Angels by Charter (alphabetical by last name)
Note: As above, the men listed below are only the significant players found in the text. Many more Hells Angels are mentioned in the pages that follow.
ARIZONA NOMADS, FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA
Dennis Denbesten, member, aka “Chef Boy-Ar-Dee”
Donald Smith, member, aka “Smitty”
CAVE CREEK, ARIZONA
Ralph Barger, member, aka “Sonny,” “Chief”
Daniel Danza, member, aka “Dirty Dan”
Daniel Seybert, president, aka “Hoover”
MESA, ARIZONA, AKA “MESA MOB”
Kevin Augustiniak, member
Gary Dunham, secretary, aka “Ghost”
Paul Eischeid, member
Robert Johnston, president, aka “Bad Bob,” “Mesa Bob”
Mike Kramer, member, aka “Mesa Mike” (transferred to San Fernando Valley, California, charter during the case)
Calvin Schaefer, member, aka “Casino Cal”
PHOENIX, ARIZONA, AKA “HOTHEDZ”
Robert Mora, member, aka “Chico”
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
Pete Eunice, member, aka “Dago Pete,” “Ramona Pete”
SKULL VALLEY, ARIZONA, AKA “GRAVEYARD CREW”
Rudy Jaime, member
Robert Reinstra, vice president, aka “Bobby”
Joseph Richardson, member, aka “Joey,” “Egghead”
Theodore Toth, president, aka “Teddy”
George Walters, sergeant at arms, aka “Joby”
TUCSON, ARIZONA
Douglas Dam, member, aka “Doug”
Craig Kelly, president, aka “Fang”
Robert McKay, member, aka “Mac”
Henry Watkins, prospect, aka “Hank”
Hells Angels’ Old Ladies
Dolly Denbesten (wife of Dennis Denbesten)
Staci Laird (girlfriend of Bobby Reinstra)
Lydia Smith (wife of Donald Smith)
Other Suspects of Note
Alberto (last name unknown), vice president, Mexican Solo Angeles, Tijuana, Mexico
Robert Abraham, gun dealer, Bullhead City, Arizona
Tony Cruze, member, Red Devils, Tucson, Arizona
Tim Holt, machinist, Mohave, Arizona
Dave “Teacher” Rodarte, president, U. S. Solo Angeles, Los Angeles, California
Scott Varvil, school nurse, mechanic, Kingman, Arizona
Arizona Motorcycle Clubs and Charter Locations (alphabetical after Hells Angels and Solo Angeles)
HELLS ANGELS*
aka “Big Red Machine,” “Red and White,” “81”
Arizona Nomads (Flagstaff), Cave Creek, Mesa, Phoenix, Skull Valley, Tucson
SOLO ANGELES
aka “Orange Crush”
Arizona Nomads (Bullhead City, Phoenix, Prescott)
AMERICANS
Page
DESERT ROAD RIDERS
Bullhead City, Lake Havasu City
DEVILS’ DISCIPLES
Tucson
DIRTY DOZEN (DEFUNCT)
Phoenix
HUNS
Tucson
LIMEYS
Charter location unknown
LONERS
Globe
MONGOLS
Phoenix
RED DEVILS
Tucson, Phoenix
SPARTANS
Phoenix
Vietnam Vets Statewide
Major Motorcycle Clubs Traditionally Adversarial to the Hells Angels
BANDITOS
Texas, western states, international; aka “the Red and Gold
,” “Bandits”
MONGOLS
California, western states; aka “the Black,” “the Black and White”
OUTLAWS
Midwest and Southern states; aka “OLs”
PAGANS
Eastern states
ROCK MACHINE
Canada (absorbed by Banditos)
VAGOS
California; aka “the Green,” “Greenies”
*Note: the charters listed are only for Arizona. As noted in the text, the Hells Angels have charters in approximately twenty states and twenty-six countries.
NOTE TO THE READER:
The worlds of undercover cops and outlaw bikers are colorful and unique, and each possesses its own language. If at any time you’re unclear about the terms found on the following pages, please consult the glossary found at the back of this book.
If I must choose between righteousness and peace, I choose righteousness.
—THEODORE ROOSEVELT
If you’re not making mistakes, then you’re not doing anything. I’m positive a doer makes mistakes.
—JOHN WOODEN
UCLA MEN’S BASKETBALL COACH, 1948–1975
PART I
THE END
1
BIRDCALLS
JUNE 25 AND 26, 2003
TIMMY LEANED CASUALLY against the rear fender of my black Mercury Cougar, a cell phone on his ear and a smile on his face. The bastard was typically calm. Twelve months I’d been his partner, in and out of harm’s way, both together and alone, and the guy never looked stressed. He was as self-possessed as a rooster in a hen house—my polar opposite.
I paced in front of him, rehearsing what I was going to tell our Hells Angels brothers. I shook the last smoke out of a pack of Newports. “Shit.” I lit the cigarette, crumpled the pack, and threw it to the ground. It was 10:00 a.m. and I’d already emptied the first pack of the carton I’d bought that morning.
Timmy said into his phone, “I love you too honey cake. I should be home soon.” He’d been saying things like that going on five minutes.
I stared at him and said, “The fuck, stud? Come on.”
Timmy put a finger in the air and continued on the phone. “OK. Gotta run. Love you guys. OK. See you tonight.” He snapped his phone closed. “What’s the drama, Bird? We got this.”
“Oh, you know. Nothing really.” I pointed at the guy lying facedown at our feet. “Just that if they don’t buy it, then we’ll end up like this asshole.”
There, in a shallow desert ditch, was a gray-haired Caucasian male, his head split to the white meat. A pile of brains had oozed to the ground where Timmy had put Joby’s .380. Blood droplets, sprayed into the sand and dirt, made small, dark constellations. His blue jeans were splattered with purple, quarter-sized splotches. His wrists and ankles were bound with duct tape, his hands were limp. It was already over 100 degrees and the promise of coagulated blood and exposed matter had begun to attract flies.
He wore a black leather jacket whose top rocker, that curved cloth patch that spanned the shoulder blades, read MONGOLS.
I asked, “You think he’s dead?”
Timmy said, “Dude looks deader’n disco. Shit, those look like his brains in the dirt.” Timmy leaned in closer. “Yeah, I’d say he’s pretty dead.” He spat a stream of phlegm into the brush beyond the grave.
“Dude, no fucking around here. We go home and show the boys we killed a Mongol, then we better be dead-nuts sure it doesn’t look like he’s coming back.”
Timmy smiled. “Relax, Bird, we got this. Like Lionel Richie said, we’re easy like Sunday mornin’.” And then he started to sing. Badly:
Why in the world
would anybody put chains on me?
I’ve paid my dues to make it.
Everybody wants me to be
what they want me to be.
I’m not happy when I try to fake it!
Ooh,
That’s why I’m easy. Yeah.
I’m easy like Sunday mornin’.
I smiled and said, “You’re right, you’re right. And even if you aren’t, I don’t see how it matters. We’ve come too far.”
He thought about that for a second. “Yeah, we have.”
We threw a couple shovels of dirt on our corpse and took some pictures. We relieved him of his Mongol jacket, stuffing it in a FedEx box. We got in the car and headed home, to Phoenix.
TIMMY DROVE. I made some phone calls.
I lit a cigarette and waited for someone to pick up at the clubhouse.
Inhale. Hold it in. Click.
The voice said, “Skull Valley.”
I said, “Bobby, it’s Bird.”
“Bird. What the fuck?”
“Teddy there?”
“Not now, no.” Bobby Reinstra’s voice was humorless and empty.
“We’re on our way back.”
“‘ We’ who?”
Inhale. Hold it in.
I said, “Me and Timmy.”
“No Pops?”
“No Pops. He stayed down in Mexico.”
“So Pops is gone.” I heard him light a cigarette—he’d only started smoking again since he’d met me.
“Yeah, dude.”
“Wow.” Bobby smoked. Inhaled. Held it in.
I said, “We should probably talk about this later, don’t you think?”
He snapped out of it. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. When’ll you be back?”
“Soon. I’ll call when we’re back in the valley.”
“OK. Get home safe.”
“We will. Don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“OK. Later.”
“Later.”
I flipped my cell shut and turned to Timmy. I said, “He bit it. Pops’s death should work to our advantage.”
Timmy barely nodded. He was probably thinking about his wife and kids. Above all else, Timmy was decent. I looked past him. The asphalt and brown California pines, the late-afternoon grid of Phoenix, Arizona, moved beyond him like a sunset movie backdrop.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, JJ, Timmy, and I chowed at a Pizza Hut. We hadn’t seen Bobby or any of the other boys yet. We wanted their tension to build.
JJ’s phone rang. She looked at the ID, then at me. I shrugged, stuffed a pepperoni slice in my mouth, and nodded.
She flipped open. “Hello?” She grinned. “Hi, Bobby. No, I haven’t heard from him. You have? When? What’d he say? He said what?! Bobby, what the fuck do you mean? Pops is—Pops is dead?” She lowered her voice and choked out the words with a frightened stutter. “Bobby, you’re scaring me! I don’t know what the fuck’s going on. All I know is a FedEx box came to the house this morning. It was sent from Nogales, Mexico.” She pulled the phone away from her ear and placed a slice of roasted green pepper in her mouth. She sipped more iced tea. “No way, Bobby! I’m not opening shit. No. Forget it. Not until Bird gets back.”
JJ’s fear was convincing and effective. Our plan seemed to be working.
I leaned into the leather banquette. We weren’t your average-looking cops—we weren’t even your average-looking undercover cops—and we painted quite a picture. Timmy and I were bald, muscular, and covered in tattoos. JJ was cute, buxom, and focused. My eyes were blue and always lit up, Timmy’s brown and wise, JJ’s green and eager. Each of my long, bony fingers was armored with silver rings depicting things like skulls and talons and lightning bolts. My long, straggly goatee was haphazardly twisted into a ragged braid. JJ and I wore white wife-beater tank tops and Timmy wore a black, sleeveless T-shirt that said SKULL VALLEY—GRAVEYARD CREW over the heart. I wore green camo cargo pants and flip-flops, and they wore jeans and riding boots. We each openly carried at least one firearm. Arizona’s open-carry, so there you go.
JJ continued. “No way, Bobby. I’m not coming over there with the box. I’m waiting till Bird gets home. All right. All right. Bye.”
She hung up. She turned back to us and asked sarcastically, “So, honey, when can I expect you?”
I grinned a
nd said, “Any time, now. Any time.”
“OK! Can’t wait!”
We laughed and finished our lunch. We’d been running ragged for months and were in the homestretch. With any luck, Timmy and I were about to become full-patch Hells Angels, and JJ was about to become a real-life HA old lady.
With any luck.
PART II
THE BEGINNING
2
MY SUCKING CHEST WOUND
NOVEMBER 19, 1987
I DIDN’T COME from a line of cops. I wasn’t raised in the projects, and an alcoholic father didn’t beat me. I grew up in white, middle-class America with a bike and a baseball glove and family vacations. I played football and played it well. I went to college as a wide receiver for the Arizona Wildcats. In that first year, 1982, I showed up at fall camp for two-adays in a 100-degree hellhole in Douglas, Arizona. The practice field was smack in the middle of the desert. Turf, sidelines, one or two feet of desert scrabble, and then cactus.
Most wide outs want to outrun the defense for game-winning passes, catch the ball over their shoulder, and screw the prom queen. I wouldn’t have minded the prom queen, but I wasn’t that kind of receiver. The coaches knew this, and they’d put me at number six on the depth chart. That had to change.
I jumped in the play rotation whenever a slant over the middle was called or a crack on a linebacker was needed. I got the dog snot beat out of me, down after down. One play I got an out-route and the ball was overthrown. I ran out of bounds, into the desert, and dove, grabbing the ball but landing in a patch of cholla cactus, which are the nastiest of all cacti. I spent the rest of practice with the trainers pulling needles out of my face and arms with pliers. The other players laughed at me because what fool chases an overthrow into a cholla?
I checked the depth chart the next day. I’d taken the first spot, and for the rest of my college career, I wouldn’t give it up to anyone, no matter how fast he was.
By the time I graduated, I was All Pac-10. I was lightly scouted and I went to the NFL Combine, but from the minute I walked onto the field I realized that my chances were slim to none. One scout put it perfectly. He said, “I can coach these guys to catch like you, but I can’t teach you how to run faster.” Next to the guys coming up that year, I looked like molasses poured into cement. Guys like Vance Johnson, Al Toon, Andre Reed, Eddie Brown, and Jerry Rice. Maybe you’ve heard of some of them.
