by Jay Dobyns
I eventually learned from Skull Valley Angels Teddy Toth and Bobby Reinstra, whom I had not yet met in August of 2002, that the Hells Angels’ rules were legion and covered damn near everything. They made a D-I football playbook look like a pamphlet on buying a Jacuzzi. The Hells Angels have rules that govern their bikes, their appearance, their behavior, their old ladies, their engagement in criminal activity, their handling of rivals. If you become a Hells Angel, everything else about you becomes moot. You’re no longer John J. Johnson—you’re a brother. A soldier. A unit of fear. A spoke on a wheel of violence. Drinks become free, and pussy is never more than a dick’s length away. You’re the rock star and both of his bodyguards rolled into one. You’re suddenly capital-R Respected. If you’re done wrong by someone, the whole club is duty-bound to do wrong back to that person.
For example, see Cynthia Garcia, God rest her soul.
In spite of all this, they apparently lacked a rule that prevented us from gaining easy access. That or Bad Bob was gullible or desperate enough to vouch for us statewide within a week of our visiting Mesa that first night—which is exactly what he did.
We were exploiting one of the Angels’ few weaknesses. In the wake of Laughlin they needed allies and potential recruits. They looked at us and saw kindred spirits, guys who were tough, cautious, business-minded, and willing to use violence. The Mongols situation was real and the Angels, while prepared for their adversaries, could never be prepared enough. The bottom line was that the Hells Angels knew a good thing when they saw it, and we were a good thing.
The day after our first Mesa visit, I made sure to call home ASAP. The next morning I rolled over in bed, opened my phone, and dialed home. I told my kids I was sorry I couldn’t have been with them the night before. I told them they were the most important things to me in the entire world, and that I’d never cut them short if my life hadn’t depended on it. I told them I loved them. Then I told them I loved them again. I told them that I was their father before I was anything else. I wasn’t naïve enough to tell them what I was doing I was doing for them, but I was naïve enough to believe my own lies.
I apologized to Gwen for having to pretend she was a mobster.
“No worries, honey. It’s not the first time it’s happened. I know it won’t be the last. Besides, like I said, it gives me some kind of a rush.”
“I like hearing your voice too. When I’m around guys like that.”
“It’s the closest I ever get to visiting you at work.” She laughed. Gwen has a way of laughing at jokes she makes for her own benefit, whether they’re funny or not. It’s something I’ve always loved about her.
Fair or not, I’ve always kept her out of my work. I needed to know that my family was distinct from my job, that the two would never cross into one another. I didn’t have the heart to tell them the ugly secrets the world had shown me, and I needed to believe that decent families like mine were what I was fighting for. I needed sanctuary, which is exactly what they’d been for me.
I wanted to go back to them, but first we had to do a gun deal that Rudy’d set up. It was in no way associated with the Angels, but it was all part of the show, so we saddled up.
The deal was in Apache Junction. The neighborhood was a blank, garbage-strewn expanse of neglected suburbia, which is too kind a term for it. Not a lawn in sight. Dotted with dilapidated trailers. Rubble and litter and dust everywhere. Vast, worthless, vacant lots. One of those broken places on the fringe of what we think of as America, but which is every bit American.
Carlos, Timmy, Rudy, and I pulled up to a white trailer around five in the afternoon. Carlos brought up the rear. He lost control of his bike a little and skidded to a stop, nearly bowling me and my bike over. No harm done: We laughed. Rudy put his head in his hand. He still couldn’t believe how lame his crew members were at handling their bikes. I couldn’t half blame him.
There was a white, late-model BMW 325i with filthy, illegible license plates in the driveway, along with three cars on blocks. On the porch of the trailer was a ratty, stained love seat. Sprawled across the love seat was a shirtless man with tattoos of a pentagram around his bulging bellybutton, a hand with its middle finger extended over his heart, and a necklace of satanic-looking letters. He was passed out. Around his right wrist was a hospital outpatient band.
Rudy said, “That’s Nathan.”
A woman opened the door. “Hey, Rudy.”
“Hey, sweetie.”
Sweetie was the last word that came to mind as I gazed on a classic meth tramp: lined face, shattered teeth, sunken eyes, bleach blond hair, her waist bulging over her cutoffs.
“Hey. This your crew, huh? I’m Iwana.”
All I could think was, I wanna what? I lit a cigarette.
I should have had sympathy for people like Iwana, but the simple truth was that I didn’t. After a certain age, after so many miles, after so much drugs—and after I’d seen so many people like her in my work—it was easier to think of people like her as lost causes. I knew this was a convenient lie I told myself. I wouldn’t hesitate for a second to use a person like Iwana as a snitch if I thought she could be useful. Rudy was a prime example of just this kind of arrangement. What we dangled in front of him was not merely a pass on jail but a final way out. Often the opportunity to flip—and be remade in relocation—was the ultimate chance in a life of repeated disappointments. All involved silently agreed that these changes were unlikely—cops held them out as fantasies, and perps clung to the hope that there was something pure left in their hearts. We knew that even with the best intentions, the odds were stacked against the Iwanas and Rudys of the world. Habits die hard, money is tough to come by, and temptation is a bitch.
A kid appeared at Iwana’s bare thigh and tugged at her shirt. It was a boy, maybe five years old. He looked as though he hadn’t bathed in days.
Iwana swiped at him and said, “Not now, Dale, we have guests!” He ran away.
He shared my daughter’s name. My heart sank as he hung his head and scampered off.
We went inside. There were two others—Rudy intro’d them as Mark and Sharon. Sharon said, “I’m Nathan’s old lady.” She added, “He OD’d last night.”
No shit.
Timmy asked, “He need anything?”
“Naw. They already gave him some stuff.”
Rudy said, “Mark’s your guy,” and we went with him. He led us to a dark, one-room apartment that could only be accessed from the backyard, where little Dale rolled a tire around. As Carlos and Timmy followed Mark, I went up to the kid.
I said, “Whatcha got there?”
He stopped, the tire twirled to the ground. Dale said, “You wanna see the new toy Nathan got me?”
“Sure, kiddo, where’s it at?” I expected him to tug me around the side of the house to show me a Big Wheel or a Slip ’N Slide or a Super Soaker. Instead he walked up to the tire, knelt, tilted it up, and pushed it toward the side of the trailer. It hit the wall and twirled to the ground once again.
Dale turned to me, smiling genuinely. “Pretty cool, huh?”
I smiled. It hurt. “Yeah, that’s great, kiddo. I gotta go talk to Mark.”
“OK. Later, mister.”
Later, I thought. I added myself to the long list of people who had abandoned him.
Inside the apartment, Mark was handing Timmy an H&R .410 sawed-off shotgun. He told us Rudy had already given him fifty bucks for it. I looked for Rudy and asked Timmy where he was. He shrugged. Timmy cracked the gun to confirm it was unloaded, then snapped it shut.
“I got this too.” Mark faced a low counter and his back blocked what was on it. He wheeled around, brandishing an AK-47.
Carlos, who was off to Mark’s side, said, “Whoa!” and grabbed the rifle’s wooden grip. I put a hand on the rubber stock of one of my Glocks, but didn’t draw.
Mark said, “Chill! It ain’t loaded!”
Carlos pointed the barrel up. “Yeah, heard that before. It’s all fun and games until someone pu
ts an eye out.” I released my pistol.
Mark said, “I thought you guys might be interested in this. Damn. That’s what you do, right? Buy guns?”
I said, “We buy certain guns, dude. Let’s have a look.”
Mark handed it to Carlos, who exited the apartment to inspect it in the remaining sunlight. It was Chinese, no serial number, no magazine, nothing in the chamber. It was in bad shape and probably hadn’t been fired since before it left Beijing on a cargo boat.
“I’ll give it to you for a hundred dollars. That’s a hell of a deal.”
“We know what’s a deal and what ain’t,” said Carlos. “This is shit, a relic. Mount it on your wall and tell people your dad was in Korea or something.”
I said, “There you have it. We’ll stick with the shotgun. Anything else?” I wanted to get out of there.
Mark said, “I don’t think so. Let’s go ask Nathan.” We humored him. All of a sudden I wanted a taco. Good taco stands in Apache Junction.
When we got back to the trailer’s living room, Sharon and Nathan were on the floor. Nathan moaned and Sharon appeared to be trying to help him. Rudy and Iwana were nowhere to be seen.
Timmy asked what happened.
Sharon looked over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide and desperate, like she’d just flung herself off a balcony. “He fell down.”
Nathan said, “Fuck that.”
From a back room a woman screamed, “Yes. Fuck. Oooh, yes. Yes. Yes! YES!”
The kid wandered into the room and stopped in front of me. No one said anything to him. He was bored. He’d seen it all before.
I felt filthy. I moved out of the boy’s way. He passed, leaving the room.
Nathan still lay on the ground. I pointed at the pentagram on his stomach. “What’s with the tattoo?”
He sat up. “This?” He grabbed his belly with both hands and shook it like a Jell-O ring. “I’m the fucking devil, man.”
“Really?” asked Carlos. Timmy huffed. “Well, you got any guns you want to sell us, Beelzebub?”
“I got a pistol in the car. Shit, I’ll give it to you.”
Mark said, “Fuck that, Nathan. These guys deal.” He turned to us. “I’ll go get it.” He left. Timmy took a knee next to Nathan and asked if he had to go back to the hospital. Nathan said fuck no. I asked him if he was hungry. He said you got a line for me? I didn’t say anything to that.
Mark came back holding a greasy rag. He unwrapped it, careful not to let his fingers come in contact with the pistol, which was a very small, battleship-gray.22 derringer. Carlos took it, unloaded and inspected it. Carlos said, “This isn’t a gun, it’s a paperweight.”
Timmy looked at it and laughed.
“How much you want for that?” I asked. It wasn’t worth more than ten bucks.
Nathan said, “Twenty.”
Sharon said, “Fuck that. Just take it.”
Nathan said, “No, Mark said these guys deal.” He looked at me. “Twenty bucks.”
Sharon got up and pleaded, “Please, take it.” Apparently she didn’t want the devil to be armed. Timmy helped Nathan to his feet. He took two steps toward Sharon and slapped her hard across the face. “I’m selling that fucking gun if they want it, OK?” Sharon started hitting Nathan on his shoulders and chest with both hands. He reeled back a little, but was otherwise unfazed. Timmy got between them. They calmed down just as quickly as they’d started up.
I lit another cigarette and took a deep pull. The thought drifted through my mind of my blue pool in my shady backyard with my great kids playing in it before they ate the dinner their mom had cooked for them.
This was bullshit. I started to leave.
I didn’t see Carlos give Nathan twenty bucks in exchange for the derringer. I addressed Mark. “Well, that about takes care of everything. We’re gonna wait outside for Rudy. Nice doing business with you, dude.”
“You too.”
As we were leaving, two small girls appeared in the adjacent kitchen. Neither one was older than four. They both looked scared and hungry. The younger clung to the older, who clung to a naked, hairless plastic doll. I wanted to take the kids outside, call social services, come back inside, and beat all of these people to a pulp.
As I stood staring at these little creatures, Nathan and Sharon started to get into it again. Apparently, Sharon didn’t want Nathan accepting any money for the gun. I asked Carlos if he’d paid for it, unaware that he had. Carlos said, “Sure, I gave him the money, it’s only twenty bucks.”
I said, “Fuck that, if she wants us to have it, then we’re just going to take it.” I took the twenty dollars that clung to Nathan’s fingertips. I didn’t want to give these assholes any money to blow up their noses so they could not feed their children. I pointed at the two girls, whom Carlos hadn’t noticed. He looked at them, looked at Nathan, looked at Sharon, and said let’s get the fuck out of here. Timmy was already opening the door.
We went to the bikes. When we were out of earshot I said, “Jesus Christ.”
“Motherfuckers.” Carlos rubbed his cheek.
Timmy leaned against his bike. We were all pissed. We weren’t here to stand by while Rudy fucked a meth whore. Minutes passed.
Timmy said, “Sun’s still strong.” It was almost six, but it didn’t matter. He took out a tube of sunscreen and placed it on his handlebars. He took off his T-shirt, squeezed some cream into his hand, and started rubbing it into his chest. “Got aloe in it. Cools you off.”
Carlos asked, “Really?” and peeled off his shirt too.
I took off mine. We all started to rub it in. Carlos asked if I’d do his back. We laughed uneasily. We’d seen it all before too, but that didn’t make it any easier. We still wanted to forget. I did his back. He did mine. We laughed a little harder, a little easier.
Rudy walked out of the house, buckling his belt. Iwana stood on the porch, waving like a wife whose husband was off to work. He walked up to us—three bikers rubbing sunscreen into each other on a hot Phoenix night.
“What the fuck?”
I asked, “What the fuck with you?”
“Had to get a piece. You know how it is. These hens can’t get enough of this old rooster.”
I didn’t like Rudy’s behavior, but I couldn’t call him out on the spot. I had to maintain the appearance that he was the president of my club. I wanted to tell him he had to stop acting the way he was acting. I wanted to push him out of the way, march back into the trailer, and arrest the losers we’d just dealt with. But I couldn’t. An undercover constantly trades his or her ethics for the greater good of a case.
I knew this kind of thing wouldn’t stop on its own, though. Barely two months on the job and Rudy needed to be reined in. Old dog, old tricks.
New problem.
11
WHY’D JACK GIVE ME THAT ROCK?
AUGUST 2002
THE NEXT DAY was Saturday. I went home. I needed to.
When I pulled into the driveway, my job was jammed inside me like a kidney stone.
It dissipated quickly.
I was greeted at the door by a postcard: my wife, my children, a dog. Smiles and waves and hugs. The weekend passed in a blissful flash. The kids laughed around the pool, Gwen pointed me to the yard work. I love yard work. Everything is self-evident and rewarding. The lawn needed a trim, I trimmed it. There were flowers on the verge of the backyard that needed pruning, I pruned them. I put some of the clippings in a Southwest-style vase—red desert pottery painted royal blue with yellow sun discs—and put them in the middle of our heavy oaken table. I played flashlight tag with Jack and Dale on the golf course, we went to the movies, we played chicken in the pool. That weekend the heavyweight burdens of the job succumbed to the featherweight joys of home life.
Gwen’s birthday was coming up, and we knew I wasn’t going to make it—I had to go to San Diego for an ATF training session—so one night all the grandparents came over for dinner. Gwen broiled shrimp and I grilled T-bones. We talked about Jack sta
rting slow-pitch baseball that fall. No more T-ball. My dad said I’d teach him all about getting it going under pressure. I said hell yeah, I would. We talked about what I’d do in San Diego, and I said aside from listening to lectures and hanging out with my partners, I was going to surf.
At night, in bed, I’d run through the case in my head. We’d made good progress, but I was still insecure. The fear I’d felt as we rolled up to Mesa was subsiding and beginning to congeal into confidence, but I still wanted to take it pretty slow. We’d go full-bore later, once we knew that we had a reasonable chance of getting away with riskier questions and activities. If you don’t wait until you have enough credibility, then cases can go bad fast.
My most recent bad experience was on a Sons of Silence case. The Sons were a minor biker gang in Colorado Springs. We were running around as a made-up club called the Unforgiven—all the members were cops, our center patch was Saint Michael—and we wanted to further demonstrate that the Sons used intimidation and the threat of violence to maintain their turf. If we could do this, we could roll it into the RICO case being built against them. We wanted to do it that night by putting the screws to them, by hanging out in their place and showing them up. They were small-time and my confidence was high.
My partners, John “Babyface” Carr and Chris “Chrisser” Bayless, accompanied me to their bar. We sat in their place and drank and waited. We didn’t have to wait long.
A guy asked me who I was and I told him I was the Unforgiven, who the fuck are you? He said he was the Warlord for the Sons of Silence. I lied and told him I’d never heard of them. He knew I was full of shit. He said we needed to take off our cuts, sit tight, and wait for the ass-beating that was on its way from his brothers. I told him fuck you, we stay or leave when I feel like it, not when ordered.
