by Jay Dobyns
He shook our hands. He said we had a lot of running around to do and he needed to eat first. Carlos suggested Waffle House number two, this one at 22nd Street and I-10.
Ah, the Waffle House. A finer undercover cop restaurant there never was. Bad coffee, below-average service, good waffles, easy on the wallet and hard on the digestive tract. Smells familiar, just like the funk underneath your big toenail does. Has practicality written all over it, especially since, for some bizarre reason, they always have open parking lots with views in three directions, the fourth being blocked by the Waffle House itself. Good for surveillance and a lack of surprises. Yes, when I or any of my law enforcement brothers are cruising down the road and see those eleven yellow squares containing those eleven black letters, there is little we can do but be drawn to them. Like moths to a porch light, except that we crave a cup of coffee in a questionably clean mug.
We told Doug we’d pay, and Carlos and I had seconds of pecan waffles. Doug actually finished his meal with ice cream.
Spooning scoops of vanilla into his goateed mouth, he said, “Here’s the deal. I got a .38 and a .40 semiauto back at my place. The .40-cal isn’t clean so don’t get caught with it. I got another gun too, but can’t sell it.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing white cream into his mustache. He leaned in and whispered, “It was used in a serious crime and it has to go in the river, so …”
I whispered back, “We understand. Occupational hazard.”
“Right.” Doug was a talkative son of a bitch. Getting info out of him was like fishing with dynamite. “Thanks for moving this stuff today. I really need the dough.”
Carlos stepped in. “Hey, we thought you guys were doing pretty good down here.” We knew they weren’t.
“Not really. I had a nice bulk pot thing going, but since I got picked up on it last year, it’s been pretty dead. But, man, those were the days. I could get shit down here for about four hundred dollars a pound, drive it to Maine, where I used to live, and sell it for three times as much. Used to move shit for a supplier—five hundred pounds a trip—but I got wise and started taking smaller loads of my own stuff so I wouldn’t have to pay anyone else. But like I said, that’s stopped for now.”
I said, “Sounds like our thing with the iron. We got those Mexican boys by the balls with one hand and the throat with the other.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Man, I’m the source and the distributor. No middleman. The Alpha and the Omega, baby. I show up with a load of pistols and I set the price. Supply and motherfucking demand, econ one-oh-one.”
“Sounds just like my pot thing,” he said longingly. Then he added, “’Cept I didn’t have no border patrol to fuck with me.”
I said, “Yeah, well. Occupational hazard.”
Doug laughed as he souped up the melted ice cream. “Naw. We don’t got it as good as Mesa, I’ll tell you that. Tucson’s had some tough times. First, we only got six members, not counting the couple guys in prison on some ATF bullshit. Then we got one member, our tattoo guy, Mac, who’s got a nonassociation clause as part of his probation. And we got JoJo who just got out of the joint and whose leg is all fucked up. We got me who just got my bike’s license plates revoked for lack of insurance and who barely beat out a third-strike felony for the pot thing last year. I acted as my own lawyer, I tell you that?” He hadn’t. Carlos said wow. “And then we got Fang who did a sixteen-year murder lick and who doesn’t want to go back to prison but who still doesn’t give a fuck—you’ll meet him later. He’s got some goods too. Anyway, I’m telling you, man, if the fucking feds wanted to throw a RICO our way it wouldn’t take much but some Scotch Tape to make it stick.”
Sweet. Slats would like the sound of that.
Carlos looked at Doug, nodding seriously. In the meantime he played a subtle game of footsy with me under the table, like we were teenagers macking on the same girl. Carlos got off on making light of any situation.
I told Doug about our cash contributions to Mesa and said if things worked out then we’d throw them some proceeds from the Mexican markup, that it was the only decent thing to do. Doug said he and all the boys—who he insisted never did anything without group approval, an important point for our records—would really appreciate that.
And so we began to deal. Before we left the second Waffle House, I called Slats from the bathroom and gave him Doug’s address. Slats said he’d park the van four blocks away and could be there in a flash. I said good, but I didn’t think there was much to worry about. I said, “Sit back and pound the Diet Cokes.”
“Shut up.” He coughed.
We went to Doug’s and he gave us a .38 Taurus blue steel five-shot revolver and showed us the dirty gun—a 9 mm of unknown make—that he couldn’t sell. He said the .40-caliber was at Fang’s and that we’d have to go over there to get it, but that he would take the money now. Carlos gave him $800 for the two pistols, plus a fifty-dollar commission. Doug put the $800 in his back pocket and the fifty in his wallet. He told us that was all he was going to make for the day’s work.
I thought, Dude, one day you’re going to go to prison for a long time on a third strike because you were jonesing for fifty bucks. Pathetic.
Doug got in his car and we followed him to Fang’s. Carlos called Slats and told him where we were headed. He told him we’d have these guys all prosecutable by three in the afternoon, that things were going easy, which they were. We were veteran ATF agents doing our thing. Over the years, Carlos and I had bought so many guns between us, it was like picking up milk on the way home.
We pulled into Craig “Fang” Kelly’s driveway at 1501 South Win-more around one in the afternoon. He offered us beer and we took him up on it. I asked him where the .40-cal was and Fang said it wasn’t here, that he’d had trouble getting it and that we’d likely have to pick it up at the house of Tucson Angel Mark McPherson, but that he and Doug had to make some calls first. He said we could wait outside if we wanted.
Carlos pulled the shade aside. In the backyard was a metal table and a basketball hoop. Carlos and I looked at each other and nodded. OK, we’d wait outside.
As we walked toward the table Carlos said, “I got fifty bucks says you can’t dunk anymore, Bird.”
“And you can?”
“You know it.” Carlos was a Division II All-American defensive back and punt returner.
“Dude, no way you dunk and I don’t.”
“All right, let’s find out.”
“All right, then.”
We looked for a ball. No surprise that there wasn’t one. Can’t imagine the Hells Angels squaring off for a game of shirts and skins. The hoop must have been left by the last tenant.
I held up my car keys. “We’ll use these.”
“All right. Who goes first?”
“You do, shorty.”
“Bet. I’m on it.”
Carlos stripped to his undershirt. I didn’t have to since that was all I was wearing, but I did put my shoulder holster on the table. We both had on jeans and motorcycle boots. I threw Carlos my keys. He walked under the hoop, held up his arm to measure the distance, which was about three feet from his fingertips, and then stepped back several paces. He got in a ready position and rocked back and forth, jangling the keys in his right hand. I was glad Slats wasn’t on the wire. He would’ve been calling us right then to tell us to stop. But we couldn’t. That was a big reason why I loved working with Carlos. He kept me light on my feet.
He jumped and was well short. His boots skidded on the ground. He said, “Best of three!” and tried two more times, never getting closer. I said, “Give me those and let me show you how it’s done.” In my day I could throw down with both hands. I didn’t bother measuring the distance—either I’d make it or I wouldn’t. I took a running start from the side of the rim. When I got to about three feet I leapt, my left arm extended. I touched the rear of the rim, but I couldn’t get above the cylinder. I came down in a graceless thud, my boots also skidding
along the ground. My back shot through with pain. Nothing serious, just a reminder that I was old and no longer cut out for things like dunking.
The keys, however, stayed put, wedged between the rim and the backboard.
Carlos laughed his ass off. He said he’d give me twenty-five for my efforts. I said that I didn’t think I could get back up there. He said, “Well, we’ll just give the Merc to Doug for payment—he can scrap it and turn it into Hells Angels T-shirts or an eight-ball or whatever.” I said shut up. Carlos laughed some more.
I tried to jump and retrieve the keys, but my bounce was all gone—I couldn’t touch the rim. I was glad Jack wasn’t there to see me. Carlos took four running jumps but was still a mile away.
I said, “All right, get on my shoulders.”
“Fuck that.”
“Fuck nothing. Get on my shoulders. I’ll pay you twenty-five bucks to do it. We’ll be even.”
“Fine.”
I took a knee. Carlos got behind me and straddled my shoulders. I stood up, legs creaking, and we teetered back and forth before Carlos grabbed the rim and went to work on the keys.
“Damn it, Bird, you really jammed these things good.”
“Just like Shaq.”
We faced the house. As Carlos said, “Got ’em!” we both caught Doug on the phone watching us from behind the shade. Presumably he was talking to McPherson. He was probably saying that he had a couple of clowns who wanted to do business, that maybe they’d heard of us, the badass Solo Angeles, Jay “Bird” Davis and Carlos Jimenez, who at that moment happened to be playing chicken with an old basketball rim.
Not exactly respectable biker behavior. Which is exactly why we laughed so hard about it later.
Carlos grabbed the rim, did a pull-up and swung over my head, let go, and landed hard on the pavement. We walked back to the table and picked up our beers. I put my guns back on. We went inside and no one said anything about it. Doug said we’d have to go to see Mark for the .40-cal, but that he’d make it worth our trouble.
I said, “No trouble.”
We left Fang’s and didn’t bother to call Slats. Everything was under control and the day was almost done. As promised, the .40-caliber pistol was at Mark’s, as were two other guns: a Chinese Model 213 blue steel 9 mm semiauto and a Hi-Standard Model A .22 long-round semiauto target pistol. Mark said the 213 was legit, but that he was unsure of the .22 so be careful with it.
As we inspected the guns, I noticed two Silver Star medals mounted on the wall of McPherson’s living room. I asked who they belonged to. Mark said they were his. I asked, Vietnam? He said yep.
I had to hit an ATM to get enough cash to finish the deal. Doug accompanied me to a nearby Safeway, asking if I had any meth hookups because his stupid wife had done his last rail the night before and Tucson was drier than Death Valley. He also said the Tucson boys had ordered him to not cook or sell meth anymore, even though he still needed half an eight-ball to get by every couple of weeks. I said I’d let him know if I heard anything, that maybe Rudy could help him out.
I took out $600. It’d be fun explaining that to Gwen later on.
Doug and I went back to finalize everything. Dealing with McPherson gave me a bad feeling. He owned a legitimate bike repair shop that we never got any dirt on, and he was a decorated Vietnam vet. I later discovered that one of the stars was given to him for jumping out of a departing chopper to grab a fellow platoon member who’d been shot right before he made the helicopter. Mark had defied a direct order from his CO, who wanted to take off right away since they were taking fire. Mark grabbed the guy and got back on while the pilot waited for them. He came up for both a court-martial and a Silver Star, and the brass had the good sense to give him the latter. I was not into busting guys like McPherson; it wasn’t what I was on the job to do.
Regardless, it was a good day for Black Biscuit. Carlos and I pulled out of McPherson’s $1,500 poorer, but that much richer in the way of small arms and evidence. Carlos called Slats. We decided to meet at a shopping center about three miles away.
After he hung up Carlos said, “Slats sounds steamed.”
“Well, we got a trunk full of guns. He’ll be OK.”
“I don’t know, he sounds pretty steamed.”
We got there first. We parked by a Dumpster. Carlos opened the trunk and arranged the firearms to show the boys that we’d had a good day at the office.
Slats pulled up, jumped out, and slammed the door. He was with two other task force agents, but they got out of the van more slowly. As Slats walked toward us he picked up an empty green beer bottle that lay on the ground. He threw it hard at our feet and it shattered into a thousand pieces.
I yelled, “What the fuck?!”
“What do you mean what the fuck? Where were you?”
“Buying guns, dude.”
“Oh, really? Where were you buying these guns?”
“At bad guys’ houses. Lighten up. We did good.”
“Fuck you, lighten up. You were off the map half the day! You know what that does to my heart?” He pounded his chest. “Jay. Anything happens to you it’s my ass, you hear me?”
Carlos and I held our tongues, not pointing out that if something happened to us we were pretty sure it was our asses.
I said, “But we got a trunk full of guns!”
“Fuck your guns!”
A young black guy wearing a straight-brimmed Phoenix Suns cap and a leather shearling bomber coat that was way too hot for the southern Arizona climate suddenly walked into our circle from behind the Dumpster. He surprised Slats, who jumped back. Carlos and I couldn’t help but chuckle. Slats didn’t like that.
He turned on the guy. “What are you looking at?” Slats pulled his jacket aside, unsnapped his holster, and pulled his revolver half out. “I repeat, what are you looking at?”
Who knows what went through the poor guy’s head? He probably thought we were doing a deal. He sure as shit didn’t think we were cops. I begged him silently, Don’t say anything, dude, just keep going, just keep going. It must’ve worked. He turned on his heel and disappeared just as quickly as he’d shown up.
“Jesus.” Slats looked like he was about to suffer a coronary.
Carlos said, “Take a breath, Joe. Come see what we got.”
Slats mumbled, “Fuck your guns.” Then he walked up to the open trunk and looked inside. He nodded. He spat out a strand of brown chaw and stared absently into the trunk. “All right, good work. Try not to go off the map again. It really kills me. I need to know you’re safe.” In spite of his anger, I knew he’d been really worried about us. He said quietly, “Jay, you know me and the guys in the van are responsible for you. I know you think you can climb Everest without help, but I won’t let anything shitty happen on my watch.” Slats looked hard at me. “I’m not pulling into your driveway to tell Gwen you’re not coming home because I couldn’t keep track of you.”
Carlos and I said, “OK.” I added, “We won’t go off the map again.” I knew I was lying. Our ditching Slats wasn’t conscious, it was just that we had too much experience and were too used to running our own games—it was bound to happen again. Besides, I really didn’t like being minded all the time.
Slats turned and walked back to his car. “Drive the stuff to the Patch for processing.” He got in. As he was about to close his door he leaned out and said, “Oh. I almost forgot to tell you. Carlos, as of next week you’re off the case. The Miami SAC wants you back.”
He closed his door and backed out of the lot while Carlos and I stood there staring at each other.
15
GOOD-BYE, CARLOS
SEPTEMBER 2002
WELL, THAT SUCKED. We knew that Carlos was on loan to us, but we’d hoped that our early successes would convince the special agents in charge that we needed Carlos more than anyone else did. No dice. He was headed back home and he wasn’t excited about it. None of us were.
We were convinced we were being screwed in the usual way that certain
ATF bosses screw street agents: Carlos was being reassigned simply because someone had the power to reassign him.
The truth wasn’t far away. Slats, having worked in Miami, was on good terms with the SAC there. But our assistant special agent in charge wasn’t. Our ASAC penned the request for Carlos’s extension in a terse e-mail that rubbed the Miami boss the wrong way. Carlos’s extension was turned down and his reassignment to his home district was expedited, effective October 1, 2002.
His imminent removal presented an imminent challenge: how to extract him from the case without it seeming rash or out of character?
The task force had a brainstorming session at the Patch. Carlos could have a motorcycle accident—everyone knew he wasn’t much on a bike, just like me—but putting him in the hospital would require a bunch of makeup and effort, and it wasn’t likely to justify his disappearance from Arizona. We could arrest him, but we couldn’t figure out a way to do that without arresting any other Solos. We could say he was ordered to relocate to Tijuana by the Solo brass, but since we knew that there already existed murky channels of communication between the Mexican Solos and the larger biker world, that would be too risky.
For a few days we were at an impasse.
To distract ourselves, Carlos and I decided to do Smitty’s Porter collection.
Slats suggested we do it at Porter’s job, so as to maximize exposure and lessen the risk of it going bad, which we could not let happen. As an undercover you have to do your best to control situations while giving the other party the impression they’re the one in control.
We decided to show up in numbers. That way we’d be intimidating and deterring. We recruited two of the larger task force agents to join us: Nicolas “Buddha” Susuras, who had neck rolls that recalled loaves of white bread, and Chris “Elvis” Hoffman, a hulking Tempe cop.
Porter worked in residential construction. As we approached him he drew his framing hammer from its belt loop and flipped it so the claw would be on the offending side of a power swing. Gotta love that.
