No Angel
Page 19
“Not at the moment. What’s up?”
“Can you put me in touch with your guy? I’d love to get one of those for my Ruger.”
I told Smitty I’d look into it. He said good.
JJ did a few deals, got some Vicodin, and bought a little Baggie of meth from Dolly. JJ told me later that Lydia kept telling her how impressed everyone was with me and the Solos, and how happy she was, personally, that I had such a solid girlfriend in JJ. JJ told me she’d blushed when Lydia told her that, that she was actually flattered. Lydia’s words gave JJ confidence, and like a good undercover, JJ flipped that confidence back onto Lydia in the form of credibility.
JJ was getting accepted far more quickly than I could’ve ever imagined.
JJ became our drug clearinghouse for the evening. They were all small quantities, but she needed to make an evidence drop. It looked unlikely, but we had to assume we’d still have an altercation with the Mongols, which meant we’d be dealing with law enforcement first-responders who wouldn’t know about our undercover status. We didn’t want to be carrying anything if we got arrested.
I told Doug and Hank to meet us at my place around nine if they wanted to do their gun deal. This was the pretense we used to dip out for a little while.
We went to a Circle K. I stood at the counter and bought a pack of cigarettes while JJ walked down an aisle decorated with shiny bags of snacks. The task force agent Buddha was fingering a bag of Fritos when JJ brushed up against him, pushing a bag of evidence into his back pocket.
We paid and left. Then we drove to Verano Circle, met with Doug and Hank, and did the deal. They were a little unsure of dealing with JJ in the room, but I said if they couldn’t deal with her, then they couldn’t deal with me. Since they were on the cash end of a decent transaction for three semiauto pistols, they couldn’t disagree. They asked for $1,600. I had JJ inspect the weapons, which she did and nodded with the slightest hint of wariness, and I said $1,500, no more. They said that was good too.
I said good news, thanks for keeping the store open. They asked if they could crash at our place that night, and I said by all means, absolutely. I let them know Eric Clauss would be sleeping over again too. They were cool with that. We all went back to the Inferno in the Mercury.
The night dragged on. Some guys started to do meth, others passed out. At one point I asked Smitty why they were letting their guard down. He said, with equal parts of relief and regret, “Those faggots ain’t coming.”
We left just past midnight. JJ was packed double with me. Doug, Hank, and Eric rode solo. Timmy and Pops drove the Merc. I told them that if we didn’t show up at home that night not to come looking for us—we were either out partying or had been arrested.
It was a joke. We all laughed.
On the way home, on a dark side street deliberately taken to avoid a confrontation, we were pulled over for a traffic stop.
The Angels were used to these, and JJ and I pretended to be. They knew what to expect from a cop. In a way, it’s a point of honor and pride to be continually jacked by police, even though, to a man, they bitch about it incessantly.
But something strange happened that night. Something none of them had ever seen before.
Typically, when a mixed-club group of bikers is stopped, and Hells Angels are among those present, they get the most thorough attention. Everyone knows the Angels are the ones to be wary of, and that given an inch they will take a mile. They must be attended to first.
But they weren’t.
The cops yelled and the cherry lights flashed. An officer approached JJ and me from behind. When he got about ten feet from us, he racked a shell into the chamber of his shotgun. JJ’s legs pinched me hard.
We didn’t move.
I didn’t appreciate the sound of that shotgun. Maybe they’d been waiting all night for the Mongols just as we’d been, and since they hadn’t come, they took this opportunity to vent some steam.
Over the bullhorn a young, angry voice said, “Bird, do not let go of your handlebars until ordered to do so. Do you understand?” I nodded yes. I held the bars with a death grip. JJ was on me like a backpack.
The Angels were told to remain on their bikes.
I was ordered off the bike by a young, stout officer. JJ and I were separated. They led me behind their vehicles.
Hands on your head.
Lock those fingers.
Cross your ankles.
Sit.
The cuffs went on one wrist at a time.
The young cop said, “You gotta take your jacket off.”
I jangled my cuffs. “How’m I supposed to do that?”
He breathed, “Shit.”
“Besides, I wouldn’t take it off for you even if I could.” I knew this was stupid, but I also knew it would play well with the Angels, who were being lined up a few feet away.
The young cop grabbed my arm and hauled me up. “Shut up. We’re gonna take your picture.”
“Good. I ain’t saying cheese.”
He tightened my cuffs. They hurt.
He took my guns and handed them off. Another cop started snapping a camera as I got turned around—front, side, back. I was wearing my goatee in two long braids that night, and the cop with the camera said, “You look like a fucking catfish.”
As they did this, they positioned JJ so I could see them frisking her. She wasn’t wearing a bra and they weren’t shy about where they put their hands. They frisked her again. She took it in stride. I was very angry but there was nothing I could do.
When they were done taking pictures, I was led to the curb and told to kneel. I was led at the barrel of a loaded and charged shotgun.
Don’t move, we gotta talk to your little girlfriend. We gotta talk to your buddies.
JJ was taken to a marked unit and ducked into the backseat. The guys were cuffed and lined up curbside. No one but me had to kneel. No one but me had a gun drawn on them. The Angels couldn’t believe it, but as far as these cops were concerned, I was more dangerous than they were.
A cop came up to JJ and asked her through the rolled-down window of the cruiser what she was doing hanging out with a guy like me. She didn’t look at him. She asked, “What, as opposed to a guy like you?” That was the end of that conversation.
She listened to the rap sheets come over the radio. She was clean. I had a few minor, and fabricated, priors. Clauss had some minor stuff too, and Watkins had an outstanding warrant for a traffic violation. That wouldn’t wash well with the fact that they’d caught him carrying a concealed bowie knife. He was placed in a marked unit and bound to spend the night in jail. It was Dam’s sheet that scared JJ. There was a bunch of drug stuff, including a felony conviction for cocaine trafficking. But the kicker was that he’d been arrested for severely assaulting a police officer. JJ prayed that he wouldn’t get motivated to go at it again.
Meanwhile, Officer Shotgun talked to me. He wanted to know where I lived, why was I still in Bullhead, hadn’t I heard they’d been looking into me? He said, “You gotta move on, Bird, you gotta get the fuck out of my town.”
I said, “You can arrest me or lecture me, but I won’t take both, so make up your mind. If you’re gonna cut me loose, I’m all ears. But if you’re shitcanning me, shut up and take me downtown,’ cause I ain’t interested.”
He didn’t like that. He put his boot in between my shoulder blades and pushed me to the ground. Since I was cuffed I caught the pavement with my cheek. He kneeled, leaned in close, and whispered into my ear: “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.”
My recorder was going. I thought, Not good, dude. Not good for you. I knew this guy desperately wanted me out of his town and I knew he wasn’t using approved methods. I wanted to tell him what I was, but I couldn’t. It would be months until he learned how close he’d come to ruining his career that night.
They took Hank, but they had nothing on us. They cut us loose.
JJ saw him, climbed behind me on my bike, and said quietly, “What a jerk.”
23
INHALE … EXHALE … INHALE … EXHALE …
DECEMBER 2002
TIMMY, JJ, AND I stayed up late that night, smoking cigs on the back porch while Hank and Eric crashed inside. It had been a hell of a day for all of us, but for JJ especially. She’d learned a lot. Mainly, she’d learned that she’d be keeping any drugs in her boot from then on, since it was the one place the cops didn’t bother checking. Timmy laughed at how I’d gotten stomped by the local police, and said he was happy he hadn’t missed it. I smiled and told him to go fuck himself in the ear.
The next day, JJ flew home to visit her family for a couple weeks. She’d put in for the time before she’d come over with us, so it was fine, but we were sorry to see her go. I told her we didn’t need her around too much because we’d all be away for the holidays soon enough. I told her things would be slow for a while, so take the time to chill. She said she would.
The end of 2002 had delivered Black Biscuit to an operational crossroads. Most of the hours we logged in December were spent discussing the direction of the case and planning our next steps, not hanging out with the Angels (we explained our absence to them with the white lie that we were traveling on club business, spending time in Mexico and SoCal, and that my Vegas connection, Big Lou, had invited me out to Miami to lounge around on his yacht and pinch some South Beach ass).
As we took stock of our progress, we drew up a list of case positives and case negatives so we could analyze our positions and objectives.
The main positive was that we’d been hugely successful in a short period of time. We’d gotten in quicker and deeper than we’d thought possible in a mere six months. The downside to this was that things were blurred. We’d moved so quickly from one day to the next—sometimes covering the length of the state in a single day, over three hundred miles, always in role—that it was hard to tell what we were doing. We were drunk on danger and adrenaline.
This led us to the main negative: We were running in place. We didn’t need to do any more gun deals with Doug or Hank. We didn’t need Bad Bob to broker any more petty drug buys. We didn’t need more evidence that Smitty acted like a local gangster, or that Dennis, while no longer cooking, clearly had a fluid and consistent source of meth. I was sick of these minor deals, Slats was sick of processing them and presenting them to the suits. He wanted dealers, not users. The case was supposed to be bigger—it was bigger—we just hadn’t figured out how to crack it.
Our frustration led to the beginning of a division within the task force. Slats felt that we weren’t leaving our comfort zone enough, and I felt that it was too early to branch out. He wanted us to be aggressive with everyone, while I wanted to solidify my positions so I could do exactly that later on. It was nothing major, just a small crack in the wall that began to dribble water. Not surprisingly, I stood tall on one side of the divide, while Slats held firm to the other.
I wanted to pursue the Angels’ offers of membership. How often had a group of cops been given this opportunity? Not often at all. I felt we’d never get the true dirt on them as outsiders, that they could profess to trust us as Solos till they were blue in the face, but it would never matter because we weren’t Hells Angels. If we wanted to take a swing at these guys—and there was no argument that that was what we all wanted—then this was the only way. My answer to breaking out of the comfort zone was to become a Hells Angel, to give ourselves over to our adversary. I knew I was right.
Slats wanted us to remain Solos. He didn’t care about becoming Hells Angels. If we were to fold into their organization, our operation would become tied to the whims of the club and our sponsors. Instead of buying guns, we’d be pulling guard duty and opening beers. As Solos, we could do whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted, wherever we wanted. He felt that they’d ultimately deal with us out of naked greed. The Solos also provided them with the illusion of a scapegoat: We were a separate party on which blame could conveniently be pinned. Slats’s answer to breaking out of the comfort zone was to be brasher, push harder, and ask for bigger deals. Slats is expert in the criminal mindset, and he might have been right, too.
Neither of us budged, though. Our egos were too invested in the work we’d done. He had a grand vision and I wanted to play the hands we undercovers were being dealt. I didn’t say as much, but I could feel that another reason Slats didn’t want us to try to join the Angels was that he would lose his sense of control—something he’d never, ever willingly relinquish.
There was a third option: One of us could have—maybe even should have—suggested that we fold up right then and there. Our case was a good one. We wouldn’t have decimated the Hells Angels, but we would’ve sent serious shockwaves through them. Our message would’ve been clear and effective: You are not impenetrable, you do not intimidate us, and we will not leave you alone. If we’d ended in December of 2002, we’d have had a respectable case and sustained only a minimum of battle damage.
But no one gave this a single, fleeting thought.
We didn’t want a good case.
We wanted a great one.
24
JINGLE BELLS, BATMAN SMELLS, ETC.
DECEMBER 2002
JUST BECAUSE DECEMBER was light on contacts, that didn’t mean we didn’t have any. Things were happening with Rudy that forced us to keep in touch.
On the sixth I got a call from Bad Bob. He was hearing distressing things about Rudy, but he wouldn’t discuss anything over the phone. He suggested I come to a Mesa Toy Run—a community outreach event that collects toys for charity—on the fifteenth. I told him I’d like to but I couldn’t, since the larger Solo Angeles organization was holding a mandatory Toy Run on the same day in Los Angeles. He said he understood that my first loyalties were to my club, but we still had to get together. He suggested an early dinner on the eleventh. I said I could be in town on that date. It was set.
We’d been hearing the same distressing things about Rudy too. Apparently he’d been very chatty with fellow inmates, dropping Bad Bob’s name to gain some prison credibility. Slats went to interview him on the tenth. He found out that Rudy’d been telling people that his crew—that is, us—were running tight with the Angels and that Bob told him we were going to be offered a “patch swap”—a full transfer with no prospecting period. Such a thing is very rare. The Hells Angels don’t toss Death Heads out like candy. At the interview, Slats told Rudy in no uncertain terms to shut up. Nothing about the Angels, nothing about the Solos, and most definitely nothing about ATF. One usually doesn’t have to remind an incarcerated informer that it would be unhealthy in the extreme for him to admit to working with the law, but given Rudy’s track record, Slats wasn’t taking any chances.
Rudy promised to keep quiet.
They sent him back to the cages, but had him moved to a single to help him stay quiet.
Jails are like bee colonies. News travels very, very fast. When Rudy was pulled, it didn’t take long for the population to hear that ATF had pulled him. And when he was returned in protective custody—“PC’d”—it didn’t look all that great. We hoped that by segregating him, experienced prisoners might conclude that he hadn’t cooperated and he was being punished. But it could cut the other way too. Some might think he was being isolated for his own protection. Either way, Rudy Kramer got the message. He clammed up.
Bob and I had a lovely dinner at the Baseline and I-10 Waffle House to discuss all this. Waffles for me; cheeseburger, fries, and a vanilla shake for him.
Bob was visibly worried about what Rudy was saying. He didn’t think Rudy was going to snitch, he just thought he was being Rudy, but that didn’t make things any better. He asked if I�
�d heard anything about the patch-swap rumor. I told him no, and that I’d never dreamed it was a possibility. He changed the subject, saying he couldn’t understand why Rudy, a man who’d been to prison, was so eager to impress people. He said he was not cool with Rudy abusing his “good name.” Bob chuckled as he told me that he’d heard all of this secondhand from his longtime brother and friend, Phoenix Angel Howie Weisbrod, who’d gotten it from an inmate who went by the moniker Trashcan. You have to love the self-esteem these guys convey when they’re left to pick their nicknames.
“I mean, ain’t that ironic?” Bob said, jamming fries into his mouth. “I’m supposed to be Rudy’s best influential buddy, and I’m hearing about it through a guy Rudy doesn’t even know, just because Howie knows the guy Rudy’s mouthing off to. Fucking Rudy, man.”
Bob said not to worry, though. He said, “I won’t hold the Solos accountable for Rudy’s shit, you have my word on that. But you might want to chill out a little. I know you guys been doing a fair amount of business around the state, and that’s fine—man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do—but take it easy. Rudy’s popped, you got that crazy fucking traffic stop. What I’m saying is you’re on the radar now, just like us. So take it easy. You don’t need the attention and we certainly don’t need the attention.” He wedged a quarter of the cheeseburger—which was already half gone—into his mouth. “You gotta meet Howie, anyway. I told him about you, and I also told him not to think about this Rudy guy too much. I told him once he met you he’d understand everything was cool with the Solo Nomads.”
I said, “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He swallowed hard and took a long, silent pull off the milkshake. As he pulled away from his straw, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Anyway, we both know the patch-swap thing Rudy’s bullshitting about is just that—bullshit. But that don’t mean we’re not interested. I know you’ve been come at a little.” He shoved the remains of the burger into his mouth and licked each fingertip on his right hand. “Well, I’m here to tell you that shit’s likely to increase. I’m gonna bring you guys up at the next officers’ meeting, ask how everyone feels about the Solos coming in as prospects. Once we come to a consensus I’ll tell you how to respond to all the love letters you’re gonna get.” He smiled at me and slurped the rest of his shake into oblivion.