No Angel

by Jay Dobyns

  The Vagos were a topic on the night of our dinner party because the Angels had found out that Prano was holding some information from them. Prano was a good criminal politician. He knew when to talk and when to shut up. I’m not sure he wanted anything in particular, but it didn’t matter. I think mainly he wanted it to be known that he wasn’t a pushover and didn’t care who his adversaries were.

  The information he held concerned the Kingman Mongols. He apparently had names and addresses, and the Angels wanted these badly. Especially Joby.

  “Motherfucker. That Green motherfucker. I don’t care. He makes any trouble and I’ll shoot him myself.” Joby had driven his pickup over from Kingman, and he’d brought a hunting rifle in from his truck. He sighted the gun on the neighbor’s house.

  Dennis whined inconclusively.

  Joby shoved a bloody chunk of steak into his cheek. He chewed it, saying, “And I heard those Mongols over there got some crank operation going. A fucking meth ring and everything. Motherfuckers, I can’t wait to kill those motherfuckers. Can’t wait!”

  Dennis squealed, “Shoot them snitches!”

  They were drunk. Joby was in another of his homicidal moods—sense was on vacation. In a twisted way I liked it. I liked that these were the guys we were making. They were the real deal.

  I was kind of drunk too.

  We capped the night off at the Inferno. JJ, Dolly, and Lydia were like sorority sisters. When we broke for the night, Lydia whispered into my ear, “I just love that JJ, Bird. Just love her.”

  21

  PEP TALK

  NOVEMBER 2002

  JJ LEFT US for a couple weeks on the ninth. She’d be back for a Nomads party on the thirtieth.

  After she left, the task force assessed her inaugural weekend. Slats especially felt it was a success. He was relieved to know all of his wrangling looked to be worth it.

  Slats was also relieved to have Rudy removed from the picture. I was too, but the trouble that Rudy had brought weighed more heavily on Slats. After all, Rudy was Slats’s responsibility, not mine.

  As far as Slats was concerned, we were all his responsibility.

  I asked the task force if there was a way we could use Rudy’s arrest to the case’s immediate advantage.

  Slats’s quick mind came up with the tack. He pointed out that so far, in spite of Smitty’s love for us, it was Bad Bob who’d really put his ass on the line for the Solo Nomads. We agreed. I said I thought it was because both Smitty and Bad Bob wanted us to become prospects—I’m convinced they thought we were the best thing they’d seen in ages—only they took different approaches. I think Smitty thought that since we were Bullhead guys, he’d keep us as his little secret. That hadn’t worked. We’d moved on to Mesa, and there it became Bob’s goal to fold us in tight with his guys, to use his pulpit as the Mesa P to vouch for us, and therefore make Mesa our de facto charter choice when the time came for us to drop the “Solo” and add the “Hells” to our Angel moniker (and it is “Hells,” not “Hell’s,” the official story being that there is more than one Hell, it just depends on who and where you are). Even though Bad Bob hadn’t yet expressed open interest in our patching over, I could feel that was where he was headed. I felt certain that between them, Smitty and Bad Bob were engaged in a quiet battle to win our hearts.

  Ah, to be loved.

  Since Bad Bob was already a bona fide president, Slats suggested I appeal to him for advice on running a club in Rudy’s absence. Slats wanted me to go to him and say, “Hey, Bob, you’ve been doing this for years. I’d really appreciate it—really be honored—if you could help me out and tell me the things I need to know about running a club. I mean, I’m lucky enough to know you guys, I figure I might as well use you as a resource. If you don’t mind.”

  I thought it was a great idea. I called Bad Bob that day, told him the situation, and asked when we might be able to get together. He suggested the thirteenth, for breakfast at the Five and Diner in Chandler.

  I told him that sounded great.

  WE SAT IN a secluded corner booth. Our food came quickly—cheese omelets and hash browns for both of us, coffee for me, iced tea for him. After rehashing what had happened to Rudy, Bad Bob laid it down. “Listen, Bird. I’m an officer. I used to be a soldier, but now I’m a decision-maker. Been one for years. And now you are too. It’s an honor, let me tell you. You know me, you know us. We run the show. We keep the other clubs in line and make sure we stay on top. Shit, we control this state, you know that. I know you know because you’re sitting across from me right now, asking for my advice. Well, here it is: Keep the club strong. Rally around your colors, protect your club and your reputation. You’re like a virgin on prom night, man, your rep is all you got.” I thought of Dale at that moment, of how I’d told her damn near the exact same thing. He continued, I listened. “Rudy, he fucked up. Simple as that. Took chances he shouldn’t have. The shit he’s in, it’s dirty, you know? You know me, I like to party, but that shit, it goes nowhere. First things first—you gotta get to his place and clean it out. Those maggots around Apache Junction he was with, you don’t want them beating you over there. It might take them a week or two to figure out where he went, so get on that. Second, you tell your boys not to worry. Rudy may be gone, but life goes on. You’re the P now, and you have my support, you can tell them I said that. You got the Red and White on your side, to the end.”

  I told him I appreciated his backing and his advice. I asked if he’d give my boys a pep talk in a couple of days, and he said that the next time we were all around Mesa he’d be honored to sit down with us.

  “But there’s more,” he said. “Now that you’re a P, you gotta know Hoover better. The P up in Cave Creek, the guy who owns the RCB Tavern.”

  “Yeah, I remember Hoover.”

  “Good. I’m gonna call him and tell him to expect you. He’s the guy. He’s just like me, man—we got our fingers in everything.”

  I told him that’d be great. Bad Bob called Hoover right then and vouched for us yet again. I was impressed.

  When he was done talking to Hoover he said, “Bird—keep up the good work and you’ll have free rein in Arizona. Just one thing: Keep me informed. I need to know your business, so I can keep everyone’s head clear. I don’t like getting blindsided with shit, hear?” He meant: be respectful, keep kicking in those contributions, don’t step on anyone’s toes. Don’t take advantage and don’t allow yourself to be taken advantage of.

  It made me feel great.

  He ate some more of his breakfast and finished his iced tea, slurping it loudly. Then he looked up at me.

  “I gotta say this, just so I know I did. Rudy was cooking, right?”

  “Yeah, Pops told me like three, four ounces a night.”

  Bad Bob sighed. He shifted in his seat and pushed his plate back a little. Then he launched into a full-blown lecture about how we couldn’t pick that business up. He said the Angels had given it up because they’d gotten tired of shaking down users for money when money was the last thing they had. He said he knew he sounded like he was full of it, since he was a user himself, but he insisted he was different. He wasn’t a real down-and-out tweaker who lived for crank and crank alone. He said it was OK for us to dabble here and there—he knew Pops occasionally took a rail—and he said we should go ahead and sell off Rudy’s stash, but when that was over, then that was it.

  It was good advice. I appreciated getting it and he enjoyed giving it. The whole time I stared into Bad Bob’s eyes. They were serious and

  sad. Bad Bob cared for me. I was almost touched. Almost.

  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.”

  LATE NOVEMBER 2002

  DENNIS AND DOLLY got married on November 29.

  Biker weddings are like any other—except very few suits, no ties, no expensive dresses, no champagne, no toasts to the parents of the bride, no toasts to th
e parents of the groom, no cocktail hour at the reception, no sit-down catered dinner, and most definitely no Funky Chicken or Electric Slide group dance. The proper attire was cuts and clean jeans and dirty boots for the men, and anything nice for the women—which meant anything decent that could be bought for less than forty dollars at Wal-Mart or Target.

  The Denbesten ceremony was held at the Riviera Baptist Church on Marina Avenue. It’s a funny thing to see a bunch of avowed, unapologetic sinners file into a church. It’s even funnier when you’re pretending to be one of them. The pastor, a short rail of a man in a light blue suit with a dark blue tie, had the eyes of a man created to be confided in. He stood by the door of the chapel and took each of our hands in both of his. He spoke in a near whisper, but each word was clear: “Welcome to the Riviera Baptist Church for this wonderful occasion.”

  The church wasn’t erected on the grand scale of the Southern Baptist churches I’d seen in Georgia. It was spare and unassuming. Like the pastor, it had a border-town feel, a Western outlaw vibe. It was the last place a complicated man came to receive the guidance of God before he did whatever it was he had to do. That little church knew that people weren’t as good as God wanted them to be, but that it would never stop with the business of trying to salvage the soul.

  The service was brief and practical. Dennis wore his cut over a cheap suit, and Dolly was dressed in a Wal-Mart special, probably with underwear to match. When it came time for Dennis to kiss his bride, he let her have it.

  We left and milled around the parking lot. There were over a dozen of us, and we discussed where we’d celebrate. Smitty and Dennis suggested the Inferno.

  A sense of propriety overtook JJ. She said, “Hell with that, guys. Let’s have it over at our place.” The guys said that wasn’t necessary, JJ insisted, then I insisted and they said cool. Some of them had other things they needed to do, and Smitty had to go home first, so we split up and agreed to meet at the Bullhead undercover house on Verano Circle around 9:00 p.m.

  I went home to set up, and JJ and Timmy went and got a couple thirty-packs of Bud Light, two jumbo buckets of KFC fried chicken, and a few combo platters from Taco Bell: the culinary makings of the perfect HA wedding reception.

  The guys showed up.

  The rapper Nelly blasted on our system as they walked in. I was in the middle of the room with JJ, dancing like a white boy at a pep rally. No one knew what to do. For a short while they stood there like wallflowers at a junior high prom. Then, between songs, Dennis walked up to the stereo and turned it all the way down. He asked, “Bird, what the fuck is that jungle music?”

  “That’s my shit, Dennis.”

  “Well, it ain’t mine and this is my wedding day. Put on something else.”

  I said OK and fired up the same old Steppenwolf crap these guys lived for, and the party came to life.

  JJ showed them where the food was, and they dug in. Dennis and Dolly looked happy. They ate the chicken and drank the beer and talked with JJ. Timmy and I drank with a couple guys who’d been at the ceremony—an Angels Nomad named Dale Hormuth and the hangaround, Billy Schmidt.

  Smitty and Lydia showed up with Pops a little while later. Eric Clauss, another Angels Nomad who’d been at the wedding, was supposed to be with them but wasn’t.

  I’d prepped some ruse props for Smitty—some pictures of my old partner, Carlos, and a short personal note from Carlos to Smitty. I also had a ruse e-mail from a guy named “Gato” that discussed the Kingman Mongols problem. Smitty barely looked at the stuff from Carlos, read the e-mail twice, and told me we needed to talk. We went out back.

  We each lit a cigarette.

  “There’s some trouble brewing and you need to know about it. Lydia got a call from an associate across the river. She said there’s fifty Mongols over in Laughlin and they’re planning on coming over tomorrow to break us up.” It was the first I’d heard of that. I immediately thought, Call Slats. He continued. “I sent Eric over there. Lydia gave him her thirty-eight and he left his cut in my car. Incognito, you know?”

  “I hear you.”

  “He’ll get back to us.”

  “Good.”

  “But we’re going to be loaded up tomorrow night at the Nomads rally. Billy’s gonna look after the guns, keep all of them in his truck behind the Inferno. Me, I’m bringing two shotguns, a couple pistols, and my Tec-9. Those fuckers come, we’ll be ready.”

  “All right.” I paused. “Good.”

  Smitty raised his eyebrows and said, “Check this out.” He pulled a Taurus pistol from his waistband. “This is one of the pistols I’ll have tomorrow. Gonna sell Bad Bob one next week.” He flicked a switch below the barrel and a red beam shot off it, piercing the dark. He sighted it on a wall. I asked him if he’d sell me one too. He said he sure would, as soon as the Nomads party was over. He said he might have to sell it to me if the Mongols showed.

  As he turned off the laser sight and tucked the pistol into his pants, he said, “You gotta understand one thing, Bird. You’re there for us tomorrow. Things get thick and as far as I’m concerned you fight like you’re a Hells Angel. You protect your Solo brothers, but you buck up for us.”

  I stood tall, didn’t smile, and nodded. I said, “Smitty, that’ll be my fucking honor.”

  ALL THE UNDERCOVERS had deep conversations that night. I had mine with Smitty, Timmy got more information from Billy about the weapons cache he’d be guarding, and JJ talked self-defense strategies with the women. Lydia wanted to know if JJ regularly packed. JJ said she did. Lydia said that if things turned sour, their job would be to gather the Old Ladies, get them behind the bar, and take up positions to defend them. She said, “You and me, we’ll shoot whoever the fuck comes near us.”

  As a law-enforcement officer, my first job is to prevent things like this from happening. After the dinner party, the Black Biscuit task force notified the Laughlin and Bullhead police departments to be on the lookout. We hoped a Mongols–Angels confrontation wouldn’t even come to pass. But if the Mongols did manage to reach the Inferno and things turned bad, then my second job would kick in: protecting myself and my fellow operatives. This wouldn’t be all bad: If the Mongols showed and I was forced to protect the Solos and the Angels and lived to tell the tale, then my credibility would be furthered.

  JJ was understandably nervous. She didn’t carry openly like the rest of us—like Lydia, her pistol was in her purse. She’d never been in a draw-down or fired her weapon in a “live” situation.

  So we decided to go over some things.

  We’d spent the morning at the Patch, and when we got back to the Verano Circle house we were greeted by a snoring Eric Clauss, who’d crashed out on our couch. We went about our business like he was a part of the family. When he finally woke up he grabbed a beer and walked into the garage. The door was open and the afternoon light streamed in. He took a long swig of beer and scratched his butt.

  JJ and I sat on my bike. I had a cigarette in my mouth. I smoked it without the use of my hands, which I kept on the handlebars.

  JJ practiced drawing my Glocks from behind me. She reached around my torso and crossed her arms. She pushed her chest into my back. She unsnapped the holsters with her thumbs, then drew the gun on the left with her right hand and vice versa. She uncrossed her arms quickly and came out blazing, a black pistol on both sides at shoulder height, ready to fire. She holstered them and did it again. And again. And again.

  And again.

  Eric watched and drank his beer. After a while he asked, “You guys are fuckin’ serious, huh?”

  The guns were holstered. JJ formed her right hand into a pistol, pointed it at Eric, smiled her generous smile, and said, “Yup.” I just nodded.

  THE PARTY STARTED at one in the afternoon. Timmy and Pops showed up early. JJ and I hung back. We’d be fashionably late.

  Timmy called to check in around two. He said, “The guys are on edge, but ready. There’s a lot of boozing but not much drugging—except for Vicodin. They
’re popping them like Pez candies.”

  I said, “Figures.”

  “Yeah. They’re anxious. There’s a lot of shop talk too. Doug and Hank have some shit they wanna sell today. Some other guy wants to sell us a full-auto. Billy told Pops he wants to sell him a couple shotguns, ASAP.”

  I said, “Jesus, we’re like Guns-R-Us.”

  Timmy laughed and said, “Yep.” I told him I’d sign some cash out of our safe before we headed over. He said, “Good. We’ll probably need it.”

  We hung up. I called Slats and let him know the situation. He told me there’d been no reports of Mongol activity in Laughlin.

  JJ and I got to the bar around five. The mood was strange. The guys were serious but mellow, zonked by massive quantities of alcohol and painkillers.

  JJ broke off to talk to the girls. I went to talk to Timmy, Smitty, and Joby. We said hello and gave each other hugs. Joby, a nondrinker, was not dulled by booze. Smitty was distant but serious looking. This was his party in his town, and he didn’t want anything to break bad, but if it did, he’d be ready.

  Joby spouted the usual invective against his Mongol enemies. For the time being, they remained imaginary, as did the violence he would unleash upon them. Smitty leaned close and said, “So far, so good.”

  “That’s good news,” I said.

  Joby closed his eyes and shook his head forcefully. “Fuck that. I want those fuckers to show!” Then he nodded to someone over my shoulder and excused himself. Once he was out of earshot, Smitty asked, “You remember those silencers you showed me?”

  “Sure do.”

  “You change your mind about selling them?”

  “They’re already sold, Smit. Sorry,” I lied.

  “Well, you getting more?”