by Jay Dobyns
I finished my waffle, pounded my coffee, and paid the bill. I thanked Bob for everything, once again.
“Don’t mention it, Bird. You’re my boy.” We stood and walked to the door. I held it open for him. “There’s one more thing, though. I want you to go talk to Rudy. Go talk to him and tell him to shut the fuck up. ’Cause, you know, sometimes people who can’t keep quiet, they get hurt.”
I thought, This is probably the kind of conversation Joe Pistone had with his Bonanno associates when he was Donnie Brasco. Bob acted, spoke, and thought like a mobster.
I lit a smoke and said, “Didn’t even need to ask, Bob. Consider it taken care of.”
Which, in truth, it had been.
* * *
POPS AND I went to the Solo Angeles Toy Run in Chula Vista, California, on the fifteenth. It was no big deal. We hung out with Teacher, made sure the local news crew got us on tape, and took some trophy shots with our brothers. We drank some beers and listened to some good Latin music. I was happy for that. If I never heard a Lynyrd Skynyrd song again, it would be too soon.
We had other Solo business on that trip. Our club dues had to be paid in Tijuana. The problem was that Mexico was not in Black Biscuit’s jurisdiction. Sovereign nations aren’t too keen on having unknown foreign undercover agents poking around in their backyard. Since Pops was our paid informant, he didn’t need permission to travel to Mexico in his undercover role. He used to make this trip with Rudy, but since Rudy was indisposed, he’d have to cross the border on his own.
As we got closer to the border, Pops got more and more apprehensive. Within a few miles of the checkpoint he turned to me and said, “Bird, this’s got me spooked, man.” He didn’t want to go into the Solos clubhouse alone, and I couldn’t blame him.
What I decided to do I’ve since regretted—not because I thought it was wrong to help Pops, but because it was a completely rogue action, one that even I, a documented risk-taker, should not have undertaken.
I decided to go with Pops into Mexico to conduct work—without work’s permission.
I didn’t intend to go to the clubhouse—I just wanted to be in the area should Pops get in trouble. I told him to call me after thirty minutes, and if I hadn’t heard from him by then, I’d come rescue him. I wouldn’t leave Pops alone, out of his comfort zone, to be eaten by wolves.
We crossed the border and parted ways. I strolled around drinking cola, smoking cigarettes, and turning down offers for everything from sombreros to blow jobs.
Thirty minutes passed. No call.
Forty minutes passed. No call.
Forty-five. No call.
I went to the clubhouse.
Pops was fine. He was better than fine. He told me he’d tried to call, but it kept going straight to voice mail. I looked closely at my phone and realized I had no service in Mexico. Great. Dumb.
Pops said, “Chill out, Bird. These guys love us. C’mon, let’s party a little.” He was actually eating a taco.
I kept up appearances. I met a bunch of guys, had a beer, and got roped into a game of pool. Between turns, Suzuki, the Tijuana president, approached me and said next time we came he wanted us to bring him a Harley Sportster engine. He also reminded us that we had yet to change our Nomads rockers to the Spanish, Nomada. He said, “I don’t want none of this gringo bullshit.” I gave him a hug and said sure thing, with no intention of complying. I hoped I’d never see him again. When my pool game was over I grabbed Pops and told him we had business in San Diego. He got the message. We left.
We walked through the streets. I told him I felt like an idiot. He told me to relax.
I couldn’t. I’d put myself in a completely losing situation. I lost if I allowed Pops to travel alone while he lacked confidence. I lost if I had to attempt an unauthorized undercover rescue. I lost if, after the fact, I told Slats, since this would likely end the case. I lost if I didn’t tell Slats, knowing that one day I’d get found out and be held accountable, knowing that my unauthorized action could seriously jeopardize our credibility in a courtroom. I lost because I knew that the longer I kept my trip to Mexico a secret, the worse it would be for me.
But I did it anyway, and I kept it secret for a long time.
We returned to Tucson nervous and unhappy. It was right before Christmas. I dropped Pops off at his house and waved at his wife in the front yard. I told him I’d be back in a couple days to drop off some stuff for the holidays. He said thanks. The words were for the presents I’d be bringing his girls, but the sentiment was for covering him in Mexico, even if he hadn’t really needed it.
Then he said, “Sorry.”
“Don’t sweat it, Pops. Feliz Navidad, OK?”
“OK.”
I WASN’T THE only one sneaking around that holiday season. Slats had been doing some underhanded stuff himself.
When I got home it was the same—Gwen standing on the porch waiting for me so she could get out of the house to get some shopping done. But this time she was in a good mood. She said, “When I get back you’ll help me wrap presents, right?”
“Of course, G.”
“Good. I have a surprise for you, too.”
I went inside and found our skiing stuff laid out in the dining room.
It turned out that Slats, his wife, and Gwen had planned a trip to Angel Fire Ski Resort in New Mexico, kids and everything.
When I found out I didn’t think, Hurray! Family vacation! I thought, This is going to take me out of the game right when I need to be staying close to the guys. The truth was that the Hells Angels were becoming my family, and even though I’d told them I’d be out of town on a collection, a holiday disappearing act could arouse some unneeded suspicion. But the kids were ecstatic that we were going away together, so I told myself to swallow my pride and buck up. If I couldn’t have actual fun then I’d pretend to.
We were leaving on the twentieth. We had a few days to get ready.
The Dobyns family ran a clothing and toy drive of its own every Christmas. The kids piled their old clothing on the dining-room table. Then they had to go into their rooms and select no fewer than eight toys for donation. It wasn’t a tradition they were too excited about, but it was a good lesson in charity. When everything was together we boxed it up and took it to our church’s donation center a few days before Christmas. Every year, I told them, “Don’t worry, kiddos, it’ll make you feel better when you’re all grown up.” They trusted me enough to believe this.
I’d asked Pops if he wanted first crack at the goods. He was making decent money, but no one ever got rich as a paid informant, especially not as an ATF paid informant. I told him I didn’t want to offend him and he said he wouldn’t be offended at all, that he’d do anything to make his daughters happier. I promised I’d bring him some good stuff. Dale helped me out by being kind enough to add two new stuffed animals, some unopened CDs, and some fresh makeup. She even insisted we wrap the nice stuff, which is what we did.
I went over to Pops’s alone on the nineteenth. Short visit. We hugged in the driveway. He brought his wife and daughters out. I gave his wife a gentle hug and leaned down to say hi to his two smart, beautiful girls. I knew the girls did well in school, and they were always polite and presentable.
The girls said, “Thanks, Jay,” and took the box inside. Pops’s wife said, “Merry Christmas,” and followed them in. Pops reached inside his windbreaker and pulled out a CD. It wasn’t wrapped. He handed it to me. I was a little embarrassed. I hadn’t gotten him a present—I hadn’t even thought of it.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it. Listen to track three. It reminds me of me and you.”
We hugged and wished each other Merry Christmas, and I left.
The band’s name, 3 Doors Down, was written on the CD in permanent marker. A sheet of paper had the song list. Track three was titled “Be Like That.” I put it in the player and hit Play as I pulled onto the freeway.
It was a rock ballad. It started with a guitar
riff, the lead singer coming in quietly. It slowly built to a full chorus of drums and thumping bass and crashing cymbals, then went back down for a quiet refrain. It was a good-sounding tune. The singer wanted to know something:
He spends his nights in California
Watching the stars on the big screen.
Then he lies awake and he wonders,
Why can’t that be me?
Cause in his life he’s filled with all these good intentions.
He’s left a lot of things he rather not mention right now.
But just before he says good night,
He looks up with a little smile at me and he says
If I could be like that
I’d give anything
Just to live one day
In those shoes
If I could be like that, what would I do?
What would I do?
I started to cry.
Damn that Pops.
God bless him, too.
* * *
WE CONVOYED TO New Mexico. The Dobynses in one car, the Slatallas in another. It was an eight-hour slog, but with all the driving I’d been doing, it felt like nothing.
Jack sang “Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg,” and the rest of it over and over. We sang along with him initially, but after ten repetitions it was just Jack. I told him to zip it, which he did.
We pulled into a truck stop for lunch. Slats’s kids jumped out of their car and Dale ran to join them. Jack took his time, walking with the adults. I looked at him. He was uncharacteristically quiet.
Gwen asked him if he was OK. He smiled and said, “Yep.”
Not fifteen minutes later Jack walked up to Gwen and tapped her knee. He was as green as seaweed. I stifled a chuckle, Slats grabbed my wrist.
Jack moaned, “Mom, I don’t feel so good,” grabbed her purse, pulled it open, and barfed directly into it.
I hoped it wasn’t an omen for our trip.
We cleaned him up and hit the road again. After puking, Jack managed a PB&J and felt much better. He started singing again. The little guy couldn’t wait for Christmas. Dale kept pestering Gwen for details of that year’s presents. Gwen said, “I’m not going to tell you, Shoey. And besides, you know Christmas is about more than presents. The presents just remind us that we’re luckier than others.” Dale whined that she knew all that, Gwen told her to sound more appreciative, and Dale wisely chose to drop it.
I didn’t engage in these discussions too much. I checked my phone constantly. I’d missed calls from Smitty and Bad Bob. The missed calls made me anxious. I felt I needed to be with them, massaging their egos and ingratiating myself. I decided to turn off my phone.
Sitting in the car alone with my family for eight hours for the first time in months—maybe even a year—it dawned on me that I’d put myself at complete odds with … myself. The part of me known as Jay Dobyns felt guilty, while the part known as Bird was angry at Jay for feeling guilty.
The Slatallas had rented a condo at Angel Fire: four bedrooms, three baths, a nice, small outdoor hot tub. We settled in. Slats and I got lift tickets while the girls and the kids went grocery shopping. On our way to the ticket offices, Slats and I agreed to keep case talk to a minimum. We both knew that we needed to chill, and that we each needed some exposure to our old, more regular lives. Slats said, “Nighttime only, after everyone’s down.”
I agreed, “Nighttime only.” And added, “At the bar.”
“Most definitely at the bar.”
Slats made a big breakfast every morning we were there. The first day it was cheese and scallion eggs, toast, bacon, OJ. The next was pancakes. The day after that was French toast; after that poached eggs with homemade hot sauce. He was a regular short-order superstar. I joked that if this federal agent thing didn’t work out, he had a future at the Waffle House. He said, “Naw, I’m too good for the House.”
We stayed for six nights and seven days. The kids got along great. Dale was the same age as Slats’s older son, and Jack was the same as his younger. We’d spend three or four hours a day on the slopes, trying to stay together. I’d constantly challenge Slats to races to the bottom, and he’d constantly refuse them. It didn’t matter. I went down hellbent on shorty skis with no poles. I liked them because I could do anything on them. Their only drawback was that I looked more like a monkey on sticks than like Bode Miller. Each run, I’d be the first to the bottom, where I’d wait impatiently for everyone else. Slats would be last, carving graceful arcs through the powder on parabolic 210s, making sure everyone was down in one piece and not horsing around when they shouldn’t be. Then we’d pile onto the lifts and do it all over again.
On Christmas Eve, after the kids went to bed, I snuck out to the back porch and called Smitty’s house. I lit a cigarette while the line rang. Lydia answered. She wanted to know what I was up to. I told her Big Lou had sent me on a collection around Santa Fe. She asked what kind of Scrooge works on Christmas Eve? I told her if Big Lou said the word, I’d shoot Santa in the knee and take all the world’s playtime swag off the back of his sleigh while he rolled around in the snow. Lydia just said jeez, and told Smitty that Bird was on the phone. We spoke for a few minutes. He said everything was fine, good holiday, I said mine was as good as could be expected. Gwen came outside as we talked. She looked at me, then at the cigarette in my hand, then back at me. I gave her a wild-eyed look. She shook her head and went back inside.
If I’d had a shred of decency I’d have felt ashamed. Instead, I was relieved she was gone.
I hung up, smoked another cigarette, and went back inside, where a game of Scrabble was starting up. With Slats playing, I knew I had no shot at winning. I played anyway.
On Christmas Day the kids were up at the crack of dawn and the coffee was brewing. The sound of three boys tearing into wrapping paper, and one girl carefully pulling apart folds, filled the living room. Their energy was infectious. I started wadding up the wrapping scraps and throwing head shots at the kids, and before I knew it we were in a full-tilt Christmas Day wrapping-paper fight. That wound down and I played hide-and-seek with the younger guys. I was the seeker. Slats made breakfast again and we ate and then we hit the slopes.
That night, after lights-out, Slats and I went to the bar. Since it was Christmas night, there wasn’t too much going on—mostly lone-wolf locals and resort workers boozing after another day.
We talked about the case’s next step. We agreed that whatever it was, it had to be something that would really knock the Angels’ socks off. I suggested we bring them a show of force. We decided to orchestrate a Solo Angeles Nomads run in Arizona, where every Solo who showed was an ATF special agent. We decided to roll hard and deep and show the Angels what we were all about.
This worked into Slats’s operational direction of maintaining the Solos, and without conceding anything, I knew it worked to my advantage too. If the Solos came in and proved we were a solid club, then Bird would gain that much more credibility, and I’d become an even more desirable Angels recruit. As far as Slats and I were concerned, this idea was win-win.
We put the case aside for a while and talked about the week. I thanked him for making it happen, saying that if he hadn’t, the Dobyns clan would be sitting around our living room staring at the walls. He shrugged, as if to disagree, and changed the subject.
He said, “Earlier today I was thinking about how we ski.”
As usual, I’d spent the day racing to the bottom, while he enjoyed the sound of the breeze in his ears and the snow-covered pine trees lining the slopes. Or whatever it was he did. “What about it?”
“Well, you know how you race down and fall and get up and race forward and tumble some more and get up and race forward again?”
“Yeah. If you’re not falling you’re not skiing hard enough.”
“Yeah, well, you know how I cut from side to side and glide and check everything out and make sure everyone gets to the bottom in one piece?”
“Sure. You’re slow.
I get it.”
He let it pass. “I was just thinking we have opposite styles, but in the end we both get to the bottom of the run at about the same time and then we both ride the lift up together. One’s really not any better than the other, that’s all I’m saying. It’s just how we are.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
We clinked glasses and ordered another round.
25
THE SOLO TEMPORARIES
JANUARY 2003
BEFORE CHRISTMAS I worked fifty to seventy hours a week. After, I knew I’d be facing eighty to a hundred. I threw the switch undaunted—in fact, I was exhilarated.
We busied ourselves setting the thing up in the first half of the month. We called a bunch of ATF agents and ended up securing three for duty: Steve “Gundo” Gunderson, Alan “Footy” Futvoye, and a hotshot from San Diego, Jesse Summers. Each brought something to the table. Jesse was young and hard—appearing more Latino gangbanger than anything else. Footy was enormous—six-four, 285 pounds—and had an easygoing personality that both frightened and attracted people. Gundo, an academy mate of mine who was ten years older than I, was a crafty old-school UC, a classic, straight-up operator who everyone—good and bad—couldn’t help but like.
While Slats, Timmy, and I briefed our peers, JJ and Pops were busy with the minutiae of hosting and outfitting three “new” Solos. They lined up rental bikes, a couple of motel rooms, and, most important, created the cuts and made them look authentic. Our aim was to have the guys up to speed as soon as they hit Arizona, which would be on January 28.
I also equipped the Phoenix undercover house on Romley Road with some new props. My three-foot-long iguana, Spike, hadn’t been getting the love he needed from the Dobyns clan, so I’d brought him up from Tucson. Once Spike got to the house, I realized that he should have a friend. For some reason one of the task force agents was selling a nameless eight-foot boa constrictor. I bought him—and his huge glass tank—for a hundred bucks.
