No Angel

by Jay Dobyns

  We were all openly packing, and Carlos carried my Louisville Slugger.

  Porter and I spoke. He repeated what Smitty had told me, and that the matter was in the courts. He didn’t understand why he should be collected for money that he didn’t technically owe, not yet anyway. He also called the woman we were ostensibly collecting for “Crazy Carol.” He was calm and tough, especially considering that, as far as he knew, he was explaining his way out of a beating or worse. I found him believable, and I told him I’d have to ask my boss whether or not we’d be paying him another visit. He said he understood, then thanked me and we actually shook hands. If I could have, I’d have bought him a beer.

  I called Smitty later that night from the Verano Circle undercover house and told him what Porter had told us and that he didn’t back down or act pussy. I said I believed him and we let him off the hook. I told Smitty no problem paying him another visit if he wanted me to. Smitty said, “Naw, I trust you, Bird. That Carol’s a crazy old bitch anyway.”

  We never heard about Porter again.

  Smitty’s words echoed in my head: “I trust you, Bird.”

  THE NEXT MORNING as Slats sat over his cup of coffee reading the Arizona Republic, he came across a story about a Phoenix landscaper who’d been arrested in Chicago for large-scale cocaine trafficking. His last name was Jimenez.

  As far as the Angels knew, Carlos’ last name was Jimenez too.

  On September 26 we arranged to meet Smitty at the Inferno for drinks. He sat at the bar with Lydia when Carlos, Timmy, and I walked in. Lydia had her hand on Smitty’s thigh and her eyes were as big as lily pads. We said hi. She smiled at us like a little girl being given lemon drops. They didn’t know what we were there to tell them.

  Smitty said, “Hey, boys.”

  Smitty pointed at Dennis, who was playing pool. Dennis held up his bottle of beer. We settled in at the bar and bought a round. Crown Royal and a water back for Smitty, Cuervo 1800 and a ginger ale for Lydia, whatever Dennis was having. Beers for us Solos.

  Carlos sat next to Smitty, and Timmy and I sat next to Carlos. Smitty asked what we’d been up to. I told him that Timmy and I had been doing a job in Vegas, that it was easy and we got some good scratch out of it. Timmy said that for a couple of guys who looked like us, doing collections was sometimes too easy. I agreed. Carlos didn’t say anything, just stared at his drink.

  I said, “I caught up with some chick who wants me to do some work for her.” This was true. During Operation Riverside, a woman had offered me a murder-for-hire to knock off her old man. Apparently he’d been beating her and sniffing her powder and she was tired of him. “Her best friend’s on the Laughlin grand jury, and I talked to her. She ran down a list of names and yours came up.” This was also true—to a point. Having good knowledge of the Laughlin case, it was safe to assume that he’d been spoken of during the Nevada grand juries. But I really had met this woman’s friend and she really was on the grand jury—call it fate—though she hadn’t told me anything.

  “And?” Lydia asked impatiently. The grand jury had been taking its sweet time. There were a ton of witnesses, and the marginal quality of the surveillance footage made it difficult to work with. The case seemed as though it would be cut-and-dried, but the attorneys were taking their time handing down indictments. They wanted airtight federal cases before they went to court. There was also some pressure to see what our investigation could add. At that time, no Angels had been formally served. Those involved were waiting for the other shoe to drop and the marshals to show up at their doors with warrants and shotguns.

  I said, “And that’s it. She just had names, nothing solid. She mentioned Dago Pete and a couple guys named Calvin Schaefer and George Walters.” This was also information I knew as a fed but played as if I’d heard it in confidence.

  Smitty said, “Schaefer’s Casino Cal. He shot some of those Mongol bitches. George is Joby. Skinny guy. Mullet.”

  I remembered him from the Flamingo. The Nestlé Quik Rabbit. “Well, I told him to get what he could on you and Pete. I can tell him to listen out for others, too.”

  “Yeah. Do that.”

  Lydia asked Smitty, “Whaddaya think, sweetie?”

  “I think if those bastards bring me up on RICOs, you and I are moving.”

  Still staring at his beer, Carlos asked, “Where to?” They were the first words he’d spoken since we’d arrived.

  Lydia announced, “Brazil!” as if she’d already punched her ticket. Living in Bullhead for as long as she had, I couldn’t blame her one inch.

  Smitty looked at me and said, “I’ll need some help from your connections in Mexico to make that happen.” Then he turned to Carlos and asked, “What’s up,’ Los?” Carlos didn’t say anything. “Hey, Carlos, you listening to me?”

  Carlos asked, “What’s that, Smit?”

  “What’s with you, man?”

  “You read the Republic yesterday?”

  “Nope. Won’t read it tomorrow, either.” Lydia giggled.

  “Well, there was a thing in there about a cousin of mine. He got popped a couple days ago.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.” Carlos tossed the newspaper clipping down on the table.

  Smitty looked it over. “I’m sorry to hear that, Carlos. Real sorry.”

  “It don’t matter. He was a piece of shit. But he was into some things, and I helped him out from time to time.” Carlos pretended to change the subject. “Brazil, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Smitty didn’t bite. We didn’t want him to. “What’re you talking about?”

  I leaned back and looked at Smitty. “We’re losing Carlos, Smit.”

  “What?” Smitty half stood out of his seat. Lydia let out a little gasp. Dennis looked our way. I was a little jealous. Smitty and Lydia really loved Carlos. I didn’t think they’d feel so strongly if I was the one leaving.

  Carlos said, “Yeah. I can’t hang around here, Smitty. The cops are going to be looking for me—just questions, but you know. There’s gonna be some heat. If I stay, I’ll be putting my Solo brothers at risk. I’ll be putting you guys at risk. I can’t do that.”

  Lydia said, “Oh, honey.”

  Smitty wasn’t smiling. He settled back into his chair. He poured back his Crown Royal and signaled for another. He put his hand on Carlos’s shoulder. “That’s the way it is, then that’s the way it is. I’ll tell the others.”

  “Thanks, Smitty,” I said.

  Carlos said, “Yeah, thanks, Smit. I’ll come back when I can.”

  Smitty said seriously, “You do that. Make sure you do that.”

  But Carlos never would.

  16

  WE WANT YOU

  LATE SEPTEMBER–OCTOBER 2002

  I SOMETIMES THINK things would’ve been different if Carlos had stayed. We had the kind of relationship where we could be fistfighting in the morning and sharing ice cream by lunch. He had the same size balls I did, but was more easygoing. On off days I fretted about who we could work, and drew up lengthy lists of impossible missions that Superman on crack wouldn’t have been able to complete. Carlos, on the other hand, would sit back and watch a M*A*S*H marathon on TV. He was a twelve-year-old boy in the body of a goateed five-foot-ten, 200-pound ball of muscle. He’d say to me, “You think you’re the hardest-working man in ATF? You’re not. And even if you were, no one would care, so sit down and watch TV with me and maybe you’ll learn something.” He balanced me out. If he’d stayed he would’ve reminded me to take it easy now and then—something I wouldn’t do on my own.

  October was party month. There was an Arizona Nomads rally on the fifth, a couple of Mesa support parties in the middle of the month, and a party commemorating the Angels’ fifth year in the state of Arizona on the twenty-sixth. We hoped to go to all of them.

  Before the partying started, however, Smitty called and said we needed to meet. It was September 27. I said I’d be right over.

  When I got to the Smiths’, Lydia was in the yard, as
before. She had on a wide-brimmed hat to protect her from the sun. I said, “Yard looks good.”

  She thanked me and pointed to the house. “Old man’s inside,” she said.

  I knocked and Smitty let me in. He didn’t wear his cut, he held a bottle of Bud, he smiled that winged smile of his. The Smiths looked like they were having a nice day at the old homestead.

  “Having a nice day at the old homestead, huh?” I asked.

  Smitty smiled some more. His eyes turned to slivers. “You bet. Beer?”

  “You bet.”

  We went inside. He ushered me to the table off the kitchen, went to the fridge, got out a beer, and popped it with an opener on his key chain. He handed me the bottle and sat down.

  “This is gonna be quick. I gotta leave for church in an hour.”

  “No worries. What up?” I drank. The beer was sweet and cold. I held up my pack of cigarettes and raised my eyebrows, making sure it was OK if I smoked.

  Smitty said, “Of course.” I lit up. “Two things. First, I really need to know what you can tell me about Laughlin, from that gal of yours on the grand jury. If Lydia and me need to get out of the country, I gotta know ahead of time.”

  I nodded and smoked and said, “I’ll keep on her. Soon as I hear anything, you’ll know.”

  “Good. The other thing is I’m this close to getting approval to start a Mohave Valley charter of the Eight-Ones. It’ll be me, Dennis, Joby, a couple other Arizona Nomads, a brother from Barstow who’s gonna open a tattoo shop, and a couple of prospects.”

  I nodded. “That’s good news. You need more representation around here. I been hearing about some Mongols setting up over the hill in Kingman.” Kingman was just east of Bullhead.

  Smitty grimaced. “Joby said the same shit. Ain’t good. You tell me anything—anything—you hear about those bitches, got it?” I nodded deeply. This was serious business.

  Smitty reached for a hard pack of Marlboro Reds. He flipped the top and drew one out. My lighter was lit as he slipped it between his lips.

  He pulled on the cigarette, the tip flared up. He nodded, I clicked my Zippo shut. He nodded again. “That’s what I’m talking about, Bird. You guys know how to act.”

  I nodded again.

  He smoked with conviction. He inhaled a large blue puff and it didn’t come out. “Here it is, Bird. We need more people like you. I want you, Timmy, and Pops to come in with us at Mohave Valley. I’ve spoken to Dennis and he approves.” He didn’t mention Rudy because we’d kept him on a short leash and Smitty hadn’t met him. Rudy was too unpredictable to be gumming up the works all over the state.

  This was a very exciting development, but I couldn’t accept for a few reasons. Joining while the case was still in its early stages wasn’t feasible, let alone advisable. I knew that as an Angel prospect I wouldn’t be able to operate with the same freedom I had had as a Solo Angeles Nomad. Not to mention that Slats—and our bosses—would have to approve such a move. I decided to offer Smitty a non-denial denial and consult with the rest of the Black Biscuit task force.

  But I still took comfort from Smitty’s overture. The emotional way he’d received the news of Carlos’s departure and this sudden recruitment were excellent signs that we were being accepted—even coveted. They were proof we were doing a very good job.

  As I mulled over his offer, I must’ve paused for a moment too long because Smitty demanded, “Did you hear what I just said, Bird?”

  I lit another cigarette. “Hear you? You kidding, Smit? You’re asking if I wanna become a Hells Angel?”

  “Timmy and Pops too. I want the Arizona Solo Angeles Nomads to patch over.”

  I drank my beer. It was hot and the beer was already getting warm. I gave Smitty my considered, and technically honest, answer: “Look, Smitty, no disrespect, but I gotta think about this. I have to talk to my P, Rudy. Bob knows him. I got loyalties to the Solos and I can’t just give up on them.”

  “Loyalty is trump. I understand.” He flicked a fragile column of ash into a Hells Angels ashtray. “Of course. Think about it, you have to. I know you have what it takes, but remember—it takes a lot.” He tipped back his bottle, I finished mine. “Now I gotta go to church.” He stayed seated. Our meeting was over. I stood up.

  I stuck out my hand. “Thank you, Smitty.”

  He grabbed my hand from his chair, smiling. “I’ll see you soon, Bird.”

  * * *

  OCTOBER 5. ON the way to the Patch I stopped at a Starbucks. They already had the Halloween seasonal, a pumpkin-flavored latte with brown sugar cinnamon sprinkles. I love the seasonals at Starbucks—I get them with extra foam and low-fat milk. Totally lame, but there you go.

  As I walked through the Black Biscuit headquarters, Slats asked, “What the fuck is that?” He pointed at my coffee.

  “A triple Venti pumpkin spiced latte, extra foam, extra sprinkles. What’s it look like?”

  He hung his head and turned around.

  The agents were getting ready to head to an Angels Nomads rally in Bellemont, a town west of Flagstaff. It was an afternoon run, not a ton of partying. We planned on dropping in, paying our respects, and coming right back to Phoenix.

  We did a mini-gauntlet. Slats fired questions at us: Where you living these days? Solos, huh? Never heard of ’em. Where they from? Where’d you say your business was again? What’s that tat for? Where’d you say you used to live? What kind of bike is that? Who’s your president? Where is he?

  Slats barked at me, “Where’s your old lady?”

  “You’re looking at a freebird, dude.”

  “That so? I got some choice pussy I can hook you up with.” Slats played a convincing dickhead biker pimp.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “Follow me.”

  “That’s OK. You wanna bring ’em around, do that. I said I was a freebird, not desperate. I do good enough I don’t gotta follow you around to look up some skirts.”

  Slats spat into a Coke can and broke character. He leaned into a metal folding chair, the hard gray back pressed into his chest. “I dunno about that.”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “Not that.”

  “Dude, I think that’s pretty good. Besides, they’re already calling us the gay Solo Nomads. Something’s gotta give.”

  “I know, but you gotta make a better show than that.”

  “Well, I could always fuck my beer can.” I inhaled sharply. “Get me a girlfriend, dude.”

  “Working on it.”

  “Work harder.”

  “Working on it.”

  A little clash of cop egos.

  I knew Slats had hit a glass ceiling with the brass in securing a female operative. Like it or not, this business takes place in a man’s world. I’m of the minority opinion in law enforcement circles that women are as capable and essential as men are in undercover assignments, but the truth is that they have a hard road to walk. Most of the time they play girlfriends, runners, or mules. What I needed was a woman whom the Hells Angels would actually respect. Slats had brought a few women in to assist for short periods, but circumstances had kept them from being able to commit. I wanted Karen from New York, but her boss adamantly refused her participation.

  I became convinced that Jenna Maguire was the best alternative. Her contact with Smitty and Lydia had been impressive, and her youth, good humor, and attractiveness were solid pluses. The problem was getting her. Her superiors and more experienced co-workers had been warning her not to go with me, who had a reputation for wild impulsiveness, into the violent, misogynistic world of the Hells Angels. Her reply was that at least the Angels wore their sexism on their sleeves. JJ’s bosses didn’t much like that.

  There was nothing we could do about it before the Angels Nomads rally, so we suited up. I insisted we trailer the bikes to Flagstaff and ride the final few miles to the actual rally. Neither Timmy nor Pops put up much of a fight.

  Pops was our designated driver. He pulled the truck aroun
d to the back of the Patch. Timmy and I pushed the bikes into position. Pops got out of the truck and opened the trailer, not paying attention to where his bike was parked. As he dropped the truck’s gate, it hit the top of his bike’s front wheel and the bike fell over. Pops said shit, Timmy and I laughed. Pops pulled the truck forward and we picked his bike up and strapped it in. Timmy went to use the head while Pops and I finished. As we pushed my bike into the back, I turned my ankle slightly and momentarily let go of my side of the bike, suddenly transferring all the weight to Pops, who was not in a good enough position to hold it. The bike rolled back, over my other foot, and fell into Pops, who managed to keep it upright. I cursed and helped him out. He wasn’t amused. We strapped my bike in as Timmy began to roll his bike up the ramp. As I’ve said, Timmy was a big, strong man, but he’d misjudged the weight of his bike on an incline. He got it halfway up the ramp, lost momentum, and held it there. He asked for help.

  Slats watched the whole thing, chewing chaw like cud. Most of the task force agents stood behind him, shaking their heads.

  As we walked down the ramp, Slats spat and said, “You guys look like a bunch of zoo monkeys trying to fuck a football.” Everyone behind him howled. We did too.

  From then on, in all of our coded conversations, reports and correspondences, we were code-named the Monkeys. For brevity’s sake, I was M1, Timmy was M2, and Pops was M4. We reserved M3 for the dear departed Carlos, should he ever return.

  WE RODE TO Flagstaff, parked the trailer north of town in a Waffle House lot, got out of the truck, rubbed oil on our foreheads, and rolled around in the dirt to make it look like we’d just ridden 150 miles.

  The rally was at the Bellemont Harley dealership and Roadhouse Tavern. The cynic in me couldn’t help thinking that a bar and a bike dealership were the perfect combination of symbiotic enterprises—kind of like a jail and a bail bondsman, or a gun shop and a liquor store.

  Billy Schmidt, a hangaround who wanted to prospect for Dennis, worked the ticket gate with Dolly, Dennis’s platinum blond, near-toothless fiancée. We said hi to them and started to pay. Dolly told us not to worry about it, but I insisted. We went back and forth. Ultimately we each paid five bucks and got our hands stamped with the number 81 in blue ink.