by Jay Dobyns
Their area was a series of large open-air tents shading them from the sun. There were two large Angel prospects standing guard at the entrance. Cruze walked up and exchanged words with them. Rudy greeted them. They invited us in.
The Allman Brothers crooned from some far-off speaker. On the left was a T-shirt booth. Two young, large-breasted women worked it. Stretched across their tight shirts was the phrase SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL RED AND WHITE. The Angels’ colors were red and white, and this was one of their more common nicknames. The women wore high-cut jean shorts. Neither of them smiled, and both smoked cigarettes.
I pulled out a smoke and lit up.
We passed loitering Angels and their stares. They knew Cruze and the Red Devils, but had never heard of the Solos. They asked out loud, “Who the fuck are these orange motherfuckers?” We didn’t say anything. I tried to look casual, but my insides were knotted up.
We approached the two ranking members at the rear of the last tent.
Cruze said, “Boss.”
The larger one, who weighed upwards of 250 pounds and had a rosy complexion and white hair, bellowed, “Cruze. What’s up?”
“Got some guys want to meet you.”
The smaller one stepped forward. He had a squeaky, impatient voice. His eyes were hollow and distracted. He whined quickly, “Hey. You’re Rudy, right?”
Rudy stepped forward and extended his hand. “Yeah. You must be Dennis.”
“Yep,” answered Dennis. He jerked his head to the larger one. “This is Turtle.”
“Good to meet you.” Rudy waved at us. “These are my Solo Angeles.” He pronounced our name Ahn-HELL-ess.
Dennis’s head was almost completely encased in a swarm of ratty off-blond hair. His beard went to his chest, his ears were covered. His quick voice and worn eyes said it all: meth-head tweaker.
I placed them both from the files we had on convicted Angels. Dennis’s last name was Denbesten, and he was a drug felon recently out of prison. Turtle’s name was Warren Kuntz, and he was a convicted sex offender. Dennis was an Arizona Nomad and close to Smitty.
Dennis squeaked, “Turtle and I are glad to have you. Bad Bob told us you might drop in.” His weary eyes paused on each of us.
Turtle offered hot dogs and beer. Dennis insisted the Angels feed us. “You’re here as guests of Bad Bob,” he said, waving to a prospect standing nearby. He said this in a kinder, gentler tone. I liked Dennis from the start. It was as if, after we’d walked into the cafeteria naked, Dennis had walked up and put his varsity jacket around our shoulders.
A prospect appeared at Turtle’s side, awaiting orders.
Rudy said, “This is my VP, Bird, my sergeant at arms, Carlos, and this is Timmy and that’s Pops, our prospects.”
“We know,” said Dennis. “We’ve heard of all of you.” He smiled.
Rudy barked at Timmy, “I’ll take that hot dog, prospect. Mustard and kraut. You got kraut?”
Turtle smiled. “Yep.”
“Good. Kraut. Don’t forget.”
Turtle told his prospect to go get beers for everyone. He left.
Timmy turned to follow, and I grabbed his arm. “I’ll take mine with equal amounts of mustard and ketchup. Mustard down one side, ketchup down the other. Get it right.”
“Right,” answered Timmy.
Carlos said, “Onions if they got ’em. Otherwise, plain.”
Timmy said, “Right,” and turned again.
Pops didn’t say anything. As a prospect he didn’t have the clout to place an order.
Timmy stalked away angrily. I asked where the john was, and they pointed to some Porta Pottis beyond the blackened, halved oil drum that served as a grill. I caught up with Timmy before he got to the grill, grabbed him, and turned him around. No one else was in earshot.
“What the fuck, dude?” I jabbed my finger at the ground.
“Fuck that guy.”
“Shut up and suck it up. What are you, a rookie? You’re a fucking fighter ace. We all know you can kick Rudy’s ass, but if you do it now, the show’s over before it started. Choke this bullshit down and wear your big-boy pants today. Dude, you’re Serpico and Baretta in one. You’re a fucking master. Come on. Play your role.”
He straightened up. “All right, all right. But fuck you, for the record. I ain’t a step-and-fetch for you, Rudy, or anyone else.”
I raised my eyebrows and we parted. I knew it took a lot to piss off Timmy, and if we pushed him far enough he’d have no problem whipping any of our asses.
Back at the tent, Dennis asked me what that was about, and I said I was standing up for my P and for my club, that a prospect couldn’t act angry when he was ordered to do something he didn’t want to do.
Dennis said, “That’s good. Shows your head’s not fucked.”
The Hells Angels prospect came back with an armload of opened beer cans. He passed them out, Turtle nodded to him, and he stepped back into a ready position.
Then Timmy came back with four hot dogs. He handed one to Carlos, who dug in. He handed me mine and Rudy his, this time careful not to step between him and Dennis or Turtle. I took a bite. It was juicy and crunchy. There was mustard on one side and ketchup on the other.
“What the fuck is this?!” Rudy barked. He threw the hot dog on the ground and mashed it with his boot. “Motherfuck. You got grease for brains? I said sauerkraut. I repeated sauerkraut, fucknut. Get me another. If you can get this one right, then I’ll bump you up to burgers.”
Timmy spun around and headed back to the grill. I yelled over my shoulder, “You got mine right!”
“Mine too!” added Carlos.
When Timmy gave him his second frank, Rudy held it up and inspected it like it was a model airplane. He nodded. He took one bite and said, “Good job. You and Pops can go get some food now if you want.” Timmy and Pops walked toward the grill.
We ate our lunch and drank our beer and talked about Bad Bob and how happy we were to have received the blessing of the Hells Angels. I said it was an honor I’d never thought I’d know. Dennis said he’d heard good things about me. Rudy said Bad Bob was a good man. Pops and Carlos and Timmy stood back, eating hot dogs and drinking beer. Cruze excused himself. Dennis said Bob wanted to meet us. We spoke generally about Laughlin and the brawl. Then we said we had to get going and thanks for the food and letting us pay our respects. Catching a little break, Turtle asked me to sign a guest banner they had strung across the back of the tent. It read HELLS ANGELS NOMADS and had a five-foot-wide Death Head in the center. The request made me smile and relax. Would an Angel vet like Turtle ask someone he didn’t like or respect to autograph club property? No, he wouldn’t. I signed it “Love and Respect, Bird, Solo Angeles Nomads.”
I felt pretty good as I rejoined the group. That’s when Turtle asked, “Hey, guys, what the fuck with your cuts?”
And that’s when Carlos—with some embellishments from Pops—told them our bullshit story about Cricket’s mom again.
We owed her a roomful of roses.
THE RIDE BACK to Phoenix was a joke. Rudy’s bike took a dump and we paid some guy to haul him, his gal, and his bike home; mine coughed and wheezed and wouldn’t go faster than fifty since, bike genius that I am, I’d only opened the fuel petcock halfway; and Timmy, exhausted and dehydrated, continually wretched the day’s food and drink over his shoulder onto the road. He fought through it, never complaining, but by the time we got back, his right side was covered in dried-up chunks of hot dog.
We regrouped at task force headquarters, a place we called the Pumpkin Patch, or just the Patch, on account of the Solo Angeles pumpkin-orange colors. It was a one-story warehouse in a metro Phoenix industrial park. The surrounding businesses included furniture companies and small software firms. We had an office up front that never had a secretary in it, and behind that, through a nondescript door, was operations. A dozen desks, twice as many computer terminals, a couple offices, a conference room, and a loading bay where we’d end up spending a lot of time tinke
ring with our lame-ass ATF bikes. An overused kitchenette and bathroom. Posters of pinup girls and a whole wall devoted to my college football career, which the other agents made endless fun of. We had space for a suspect matrix—basically a wall of photos and names—and stations for evidence processing and a safe. Over the course of the following year, the Patch would become the closest thing to home many of us had.
Timmy cleaned up, Slats made coffee, and then we debriefed. Two main things came up. First, we had to put some mileage on our cuts. We took them to the loading area, poured water and beer and handfuls of dirt on them, and ran the van over them. We held them up and they looked fantastic. Mine was a little too dirty for my liking—I like clean, orderly things—but I knew the now worn-looking cut wouldn’t draw any undue attention.
Second was Timmy. He took Slats aside and demanded to be made a full patch Solo on the spot. Slats, chewing a wad of Copenhagen, said no dice. He said in order to come off real, we needed to run him and Pops as prospects for a couple of months. Timmy said if that was the case then he’d end up beating Rudy into the hospital. Slats told him to suck it up, just like I had. Slats said he’d tell Rudy to chill out, that he’d remind him this was a big game. Timmy said that wasn’t good enough. Slats spat on the ground and said too bad.
We broke and went home. Our Phoenix undercover house wasn’t set up yet, so Carlos and I crashed at hotels. Slats, Timmy, and Pops went home—to wives, kids, dogs, and everything. Before he left, Timmy secretly grabbed a center patch, a top rocker, and a Nomads side rocker from the “flash stash.” He didn’t tell anyone. He got home at 3:00 a.m., snuck up to his bedroom, and nudged his wife awake.
Timmy would not be a prospect. He’d paid his dues through years of undercover work on gangbangers, sex offenders, and street dealers. He had more property-crime experience—robberies, larcenies, home invasions—than all of us put together. He knew that the Angels prospected their guys for no less than a full year, and that, to keep up appearances, he was probably expected to prospect for Rudy for at least three months, the lesser standard that most other clubs demanded. As far as he was concerned, this was unacceptable. He knew he could serve Black Biscuit better and faster as a “full patch,” an official member.
His wife sat up in bed. He showed her the patches and his vest and begged her to sew them on. She said OK. He made a pot of coffee and they sat together over the sewing machine in the room off the garage.
The next day Timmy showed up at the Patch decked out in all his flash. We laughed it off. Rudy fumed. Slats shrugged, said, “All right, let’s get to work.” I slapped Timmy on the back, glad to have him as a full partner, and said, “I guess that’s how us Solos roll.”
Timmy said, “Damn right. Fast and right at you.”
8
JESUS HATES A PUSSY
AUGUST 1, 2002
FIVE DAYS AFTER Too Broke, we got an invitation to meet Bad Bob at the Mesa clubhouse.
Bob expected us at 9:00 p.m. We decided to meet at a church parking lot in Gilbert, Arizona, a former town that had been engulfed by Phoenix’s insatiable sprawl. Pops, Carlos, Timmy, and I were about as close as we could be to shitting our pants. Too Broke felt like it had taken place months ago. Meeting the Angels in a tent outside during the day wasn’t the same as riding our bikes into their driveway at 153 South LeBaron, kicking down, unassing, and walking right into their cinderblock stronghold.
At night.
I felt certain we were setting ourselves up. I thought our game might be too tight, and imagined Rudy was a tweaker dickhead cop-hater who wanted to see us smoked. We knew that it didn’t take much for a UC to end up as dead as Elvis. If we’d miscalculated or been too brash, we’d be gone before we could finish saying, “Mister Hells Angels, sir, it’s an honor to—” Sure, the cover team would storm in a few minutes later, but they’d only be able to even the score, hose our brains off the wall, and snap some tags around our toes.
We sat around a picnic table under a mesquite tree, waiting for Rudy. The sun was down, but the desert twilight lingered. Pops and I smoked like twin furies. It was August in Arizona, and the sweat sealed our Solo cuts to our torsos like second skins.
I had my Glocks, and Carlos and Timmy each carried Beretta .380s. Pops had a Smith & Wesson five-shot revolver. It’s basically forbidden to arm an informant, even a paid one like Pops, but I trusted him and was unwilling to put him in harm’s way without a means of defending himself.
I flipped, closed, flipped, closed my Zippo. Carlos popped gum. Pops talked to his wife on his cell. Timmy just sat there, calm as a lizard on a rock. Bastard.
Rudy pulled in. He revved his engine, fired down, and jumped off. He didn’t have a gun. Pops was a friend; Rudy was a means to an end. He was still a convicted felon with revoked gun rights.
“Sorry I’m late.” He didn’t sound sorry.
I didn’t care. I said, “No worries. We got time.”
Timmy said, “It’s only seven, prez.”
“All right.” Rudy unwrapped a new soft pack of Reds, bit off the foil, and shook out a smoke. I lit it for him.
We didn’t say anything.
Then Rudy said, “OK, I’m in charge when we’re inside, don’t forget it. You step on my toes and the show’s over. The Angels operate by the book, and they expect us to also. I don’t wanna lose the stature I’ve built up for you snouts. I need to see the pride you got for your colors. Also, we might ride with these guys tonight. Hate to break you off so fast, but you gotta know a couple things. We’ll be at the back, keeping up. We gotta keep up. They blow a light, we blow a light. They get traffic-stopped, we get traffic-stopped. Mesa rides like the Blue Angels on Memorial Day. Other charters hate riding with ’em ’cause they’re such fucking road Nazis. Stay eighteen inches off the wheel in front of you. And stay back. Never, ever cross the line of a full patch’s front wheel. You pass one of these guys and there will be hell to pay.”
No one said anything.
Rudy said, “The fuck? You guys ready?” We looked at each other in silence. Even grizzly old Pops, who on most days couldn’t have given a shit if someone put a bullet in his head, stayed quiet. Rudy was disgusted. “Listen, if we’re gonna do this, then let’s roll over as fast and hard as we can. We’re gonna get off our motorcycles and walk up to these guys like we’re the baddest pricks on earth. We’re gonna look ’em in the eye and tell ’em who we are. What comes next, comes next. We’ll handle it.” Rudy looked directly at me. “If you don’t have it in you, if you wanna go home right now and tell your neighbor’s wife what a badass you are, then let’s call this bullshit off and close the case, because it has to start right here and right now.” Our silence continued, born more of shame than of fear.
“Jesus Hates a Pussy.” I blurted it out. The guys looked at me with what-the-fuck? looks. I said, “It’s my old partner Chris Bayless’s mantra for this kind of situation. He were here, he’d say, ‘So, your stomach’s in knots and you wanna go home. Well, strap your nuts up and go to work. Jesus hates a pussy—you’re a fucking undercover, you gotta do what you gotta do!’ C’mon, guys, I’m nervous as hell, but Jesus hates a pussy, all right?”
Timmy repeated it quietly. “Jesus Hates a Pussy.” Carlos and Pops said it together.
Rudy said, “All right then, Jesus Hates a Pussy. Now let’s get the fuck out of here!”
It worked. We rode out. To call what followed white-knuckle would be like calling a severed leg a scratch. Rudy put Pops and Timmy, both fearless, hard riders, at the back and told them to choke it up. Carlos and I held on for dear life. We stayed within two feet of the bike in front of us and rode like a chain through a jumbled crank box. Cars flew past at obscene angles as we banked our massive Harleys over the Phoenix freeways. Twilight gave way to nighttime. The lights coagulated in smears of orange, red, and white. The sound ate into our legs and asses and chests, and before we knew it, the machines clicked like they were breathing. It was my first real ride, there was no question about it.
We pulled into a Circle K south of Mesa proper. Timmy and Pops went in to buy Red Bulls and cigarettes.
Carlos said to no one in particular, “Muh-ther luh-ver! We’re gonna die on these fucking things. You know that, right?”
It certainly felt that way. The hogs were exhilarating death traps. Period.
Rudy said, “That was better.” He patted my thigh.
Slats called and also said, “That was better.”
I told him thanks and that we were getting ready to head over. He said the wire was running and the cover team was already in place. They could be at the clubhouse, Ithaca pump-action shotguns blazing, inside of forty-five seconds. I said cool and hung up.
Civilians looked at us from the corners of their eyes. I smiled at one woman and her ten-year-old. She turned the boy’s shoulders away from the group of scary-looking men I was a part of, hustling him toward their car. For the first time in days I thought of my son, Jack.
I’d missed a lot of my kids’ milestones. The worst was when I was working a casino bombing case in Vegas and I missed Jack’s first steps. Gwen called and left a message as soon as it happened. I couldn’t pick up the phone because I was in a piece-of-shit undercover car with our suspect and my partner, Vincent Cefalu, cruising around the Las Vegas fringe looking for a place to have tacos while we talked about a plastic explosives deal. That’s the kind of thing I’ve habitually traded the most precious moments of my life for.
The woman with the little boy put her car in gear and pulled out in a quick, sharp arc, her axle whining. We hung around the parking lot a little while longer and Rudy said let’s go. We all said Jesus Hates a Pussy, and we went.
9
FIRST NIGHT IN MESA
AUGUST 1 AND 2, 2002
THE MESA CLUBHOUSE was in a residential neighborhood. A single-level ranch with a carport on the west side, fronted by a shoulder-high cinderblock wall painted white and topped with red roofing tiles. A large palo verde tree shot up from behind the wall. An open chain-link fence with red plastic strips woven into the links could be closed to seal the driveway. Twin Death Heads faced each other over the porch, engaged in a nonstop stare-down. Painted between them in the flared Hells Angels typeface was the red word MESA.
