No Angel

by Jay Dobyns

  We ramped up our contacts after mid-January. Timmy and Pops went out with Bad Bob and the Mesa boys one night. Bob announced there’d be no more drugs in the clubhouse—no selling, no buying, no using. The guys said fine. Bob said there’d been too much of that lately. Then Bob took Timmy and Pops aside and asked, “By the way, you guys got any party favors?” Apparently the rule didn’t apply to him. Timmy later told me he had to stifle a chuckle by coughing into his hand, and Pops said he couldn’t even believe it.

  Not much else happened until the show came to town on the twenty-eighth.

  Slats rolled out the equivalent of an undercover red carpet for the temporary Solos: grilled New York strips, ice-cold Cokes, and a makeshift casino in the Patch—craps and blackjack tables and a roulette wheel. I tried to get JJ to dress up like a showgirl, but she told me to fuck off.

  We gambled quarters and laughed and ate. Around ten I suggested we go for a ride. Everyone was game.

  As we saddled up Slats yelled, “Take it easy tonight. We got a big week.”

  I said, “Got it.”

  “No clubhouses. Only soft spots.”

  “Got it.”

  “You got no cover.”

  “Got it.”

  We left.

  I knew these guys were up for anything, so I immediately violated Slats’s orders. We headed to the Desert Flame, a strip club owned by a new Mesa prospect named Big Time Mike.

  We rolled in seven deep, counting JJ.

  Big Time Mike asked, “What’s up?”

  “Big Time! These are my Solo brothers—Jesse, Footy, and Gundo.” Big Time asked us what we’d have, and we told him.

  After serving us he said, “You guys should go over to Mesa. Some guys are there, they’d love to see you.” Before I could say anything, he called, spoke to them, and hung up. “It’s all set. They’re expecting you.”

  “Cool, dude.”

  I pulled Gundo and Footy aside and asked, “Whaddaya think? We won’t go over there if you’re not comfortable yet. You heard Slats—he doesn’t want us doing anything like this.”

  Both said, without hesitating, “Hell with that, let’s go!”

  I asked Jesse and JJ the same, and they were game too. Timmy and Pops were always up to see the boys. I told everyone we wouldn’t stay longer than an hour or two. In and out, meet and greet, get the lay of the land, that kind of thing. As we assed-up I looked at my guys. I thought, We don’t need a damn cover team. We are the cover team. There was no way a roomful of Angels was going to outdo the seven of us. My confidence soared.

  Mesa Angel Alex Davies met us at the gate and showed us inside. It was a small group. Nick Nuzzo, Mark Krupa, Casino Cal, Paul Eischeid, and some prospect I’d never seen. Nick stepped behind the bar, poured us all drinks, and toasted the Solo Angeles.

  Then he said, “Let’s go next door.” He meant the members-only section of the house.

  For the first time, we went next door. The decor was more of the same, except there was a greater concentration of lounging furniture: a couple of couches, four overstuffed chairs, a low coffee table with nonsense scratched all over it—affa, i (heart) the hells angels; mesa rocks; and JAIL, DEATH, AND PUSSY.

  Everyone mingled. The new Solos hit the ground running and took over: no fear, no hesitancy. They’d been on the case for twelve hours and they were already performing like A-list actors. For the first time in months I was able to sit back and enjoy myself as my partners worked the room. Nick and Cal started to do bumps of crank off the tip of a Buck knife, openly violating Bob’s no-drug rule. Nick must have seen me looking at him, because he sheathed his knife and came over.

  He blurted out, “Fuck Bob.”

  It was the meth talking. I didn’t say anything.

  He repeated, “Fuck that guy.” Cal came over and sat down. Nick sat down. He bounced one of his legs and spoke fast. “Shit ain’t right around here, Bird, I’ll tell you. Guys are splitting. The guys in this room, we wanna be outlaw. Bob and Whale and Crow, those old fucks, they want us to take it easy.” He spit on the floor. “We want to be outlaw—like you guys, you know?” That took me aback. The Mesa Hells Angels wanted to be like us? Like Solos?

  Nick sniffed hard. Cal took over talking. “Listen, Bird, we wanna do business with you. But we gotta take it slow ’cause we don’t want Bob knowing. He’s hoarding you guys. He’s paranoid and he’s greedy and he’s keeping all the good shit to himself.”

  Nick broke back in, “Shit, you know how many times I seen that fat fuck break his own drug rule? Man, I ain’t got enough fingers.”

  I nodded. They offered JJ and me a bump, and I reminded them I didn’t do that anymore. JJ said No thanks, not as long as Bird is my old man.

  “Anyway,” Nick said, snorting it himself, “not everyone is Bob’s boy here anymore. Some shit is fucked up around here lately.”

  This was good and bad for us: We had the opportunity to exploit some club weaknesses, but we had to keep Bob happy. Under no circumstances could any of us undermine his authority. I told Nick and Cal that we were always interested in business opportunities, but I didn’t mention Bob. Nor would I say anything to him. I decided to string them all along and see how everything shook out. I had to do it this way. If I ratted, Bob would know, but he’d also know I was a rat. If he found out later that I knew, then I’d come clean, but I’d add that I didn’t want to be the guy to tell him. I’d have to shift the blame onto Nick and Cal for putting me in a bad spot. I knew Bob would understand and respect this reasoning. It was the only honorable course of action.

  We left not too long after that. We couldn’t stay late. Slats was right, we did have a big week ahead of us.

  WE HAD OUR ops planned to the minute. I had these guys for a week and I wanted to get Slats his money’s worth.

  The twenty-ninth started with some club business that I invited Bob to. It concerned our prospect, Jesse. The Solos huddled around him in the living room of the undercover house, merengue music blaring from some low-rider outside. I waited in the kitchen for my cue, Timmy saying, “What the fuck you looking at, prospect?”

  I lit a smoke and sauntered in, my Serial Killer cap pulled low over my eyebrows. Jesse sat in a folding chair in the middle of the room. I paced tightly in front of him, never traveling more than four feet. I stared him down. He swung his knees back and forth. I sucked my smoke. Everyone else was lined up, arms crossed, and bore down on Jesse with scowls.

  “I’m not gonna waste your time, prospect. And I sure as shit ain’t gonna waste the time of any of my brothers or esteemed guests. You’re shit, plain and simple. I hear from your sponsor that you don’t do shit, and when you do do shit you don’t do it right. I ask your sponsor over there”—I thumbed at Footy—“and he says you can’t even open a beer right, let alone do something more complicated like gas up a bike. God forbid he asked you to do something real, something any one of the men in this room could do without thinking. You know what kind of thing I mean?” I stopped. Jesse stared at me like a busted schoolboy.

  Gundo said, “Bird asked you a question. Answer.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I know what you mean, Bird.” His voice didn’t waver.

  I stepped on his words: “I don’t think you do. I don’t think you have one single fucking idea what I’m talking about. I’m talking about real shit, man-up shit, shit your momma wouldn’t be proud of, you understand me, dude?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

  “Bullshit!” I barked. He didn’t flinch. I pretended not to like that. I leaned in close. I placed my hands on my knees. I spoke quietly. “Bullshit, prospect. I think you’re a pussy. I think you’re a spineless, unworthy fucking cunt. You ain’t no Solo. You wanna ride a bike, I suggest you go home and join a BMX club, you California nobody. You hear me?”

  “Yeah.” No fear in there.

  “All right. Now. Since I’m a decent guy, now’s when you talk, if you got something you wanna say.”

  He respectfully said that he didn’t see
it my way. He said he’d done everything that had been asked of him and done it as well as he could. He said if it wasn’t good enough, then he was sorry. He said, for what it was worth, he still wanted to be a Solo.

  I turned my back to him while he spoke, and shook my head. When he was finished I said, “Forget it, man, forget it.” I winked at Bob. “Aw, just forget it. Footy, give the man his shit!” And Footy stepped forward and gave Jesse his patch, at which point we all cheered and Jesse let out a big, fake breath. Bob was transfixed. Later he told me it had been the best patch ceremony he’d ever been to. “Except for this one where the new brother accidentally got shot,” he added, laughing.

  Then came the Solos Angeles barbecue in honor of the Arizona Hells Angels. Around twenty Angels came over to our humble home in the Mexican ’hood. The homeboys next door didn’t know what to think when all those bikes roared onto the calle. We were good neighbors, we invited them. Some showed up. Crazy scene: Mexican gangsters and Hells Angels commingling like we were in a prison yard in the desert.

  Gundo was a piece of work. He’d learned long ago that it was best to just be himself in the undercover world. Along with his cut, he wore light gray corduroys, a white button-down shirt, a plain green baseball cap, and running sneakers. Except for his haircut and his jacket, he looked like an average guy at the mall. The haircut was the kicker. He’d had me shave the sides of his head, leaving a wide mohawk on the top. He called the look “the Seahorse.”

  I walked through the kitchen at one point during the party to find Gundo nonchalantly holding the clothing of a naked man. A few Angels stood around looking him up and down, their arms crossed. I asked Gundo what was up.

  “No one knew this guy,” he said. “I wanted to make sure he wasn’t miked up.”

  The guy looked humiliated and frightened. I had no idea who he was. “Well, unless they got mics in dicks these days, I think he’s clean. Give him his clothes back, all right?”

  Gundo smiled the same smile I’d seen him give his wife a hundred times. “Was just about to do that, Bird.”

  Bad Bob had witnessed the strip-search and came over to ask what was going on. Gundo explained to him, “Bob, you’re our guest at this party. Your safety and the safety of your brothers is my responsibility while you’re here. Someone shows up and no one knows him, then he’s gonna get shaken down by me until I’m satisfied he’s not recording you, not photographing you, and not smuggling in any hardware with bad intentions.” Bob beamed and threw one of his massive tree-trunk arms around Gundo’s neck, catching him in the crook of his elbow. Bob turned to me and said, “I love this guy.” All that was missing was for Bob to give Gundo a noogie on the Seahorse.

  I walked through the party shirtless, high on success. I never smiled. I had some drumsticks that I beat on everything—the backs of chairs, the backs of people. I even did a drumroll on Casino Cal’s Death Head. I was Bird, full of nervous energy.

  JJ started to get tight with Nick’s girl, Casey. Casey was the girl covered in tattoos whom Bad Bob occasionally went with. Casey dug JJ, and JJ returned the favor. Casey claimed to be a meth source for a Denver Angel named Nick Pew—as well as for Mesa. She asked JJ if she wanted to do a rail, and JJ said, “I do a rail and Bird finds out, I catch a beating. No way. Thanks, though.” Casey said no problem, she understood, boy did she. Casey told her she ran shit to California and back for Nick and his brothers all the time. JJ said she had some friends in Dago who might want some, and Casey told her to let her know how much, that she was her girl. JJ thanked her, said she wouldn’t forget. Then Casey told her she’d be willing to drive shit south for us if we needed another driver. JJ said she’d talk to me about it, and when I heard that I laughed.

  My new prop, the snake, lived in the living room. The party thumping around me, I took the snake out of the tank and draped it over my shoulders. It was heavy and smooth and cool. It felt powerful.

  As I approached Bad Bob, his face went white. He pulled his knife, pointed it at the boa, and yelled, “Bird, you get that fucking thing away from me or it’s gonna be cowboy boots!”

  I said, “Thanks, Bob.” He asked what for. “You just named my snake. ‘Boots.’”

  The party ended but the ride continued. Nights flowed into days and back into nights.

  We roared into Mesa on the thirtieth for the Mesa Run night. Bob, obviously tweaking, cornered me and went off on Rudy. He was worried about him snitching again, saying he knew Rudy had a newborn at home and he’d talked to ATF and maybe Rudy had made a deal to get out while his kid was still young, to spend some time with him and whatnot. I knew Rudy was going away no matter what, that he had nothing left to give us, but I couldn’t comfort Bob. All I could say was that Rudy was messed up, but he wasn’t an informant. Bob compulsively played with one of the rings on his fat fingers while we spoke. He said he’d hung his ass out for us, that he used to be dead set against other clubs starting up in Arizona, but in us he saw something he liked, something he hadn’t seen in a long time. I thanked him for the millionth time. He said as soon as Rudy settled down, things would open up for us.

  On the thirty-first we waltzed into the Pioneer Saloon in Cave Creek and got a full introduction over the PA. Gundo was right behind me, and after the announcement ended he leaned into my ear and said quietly, “I don’t care who these guys are, but that was fucking cool.” I nodded. It was.

  Everyone was there, and I mean everyone. Sonny, Johnny Angel, Hoover, Smitty, Joby, Bob, Fang—every guy who had any kind of influence in the state.

  Sonny came up and greeted each one of us, and in one of the greatest moments in biker investigator history, we got a group shot with him: just Sonny Barger and Johnny Angel in the middle of a row of Solo Angeles, aka cops, Sonny’s arch nemeses. It was a damned coup.

  The night of February 1, we went to Cave Creek’s clubhouse. Theirs was bigger than Mesa’s, on a more open lot in a residential neighborhood. They had a little stage with a stripper pole, and that night the pole had a stripper on it at all times. A blonde with thigh-high red patent leather boots and a dirty brunette in a knit black bikini—or more often out of it—took turns twirling around the stage.

  All night Joby bugged me for my silencer source—he must’ve heard about it from Smitty. At one point Joby pulled me into a side room and said, “I need something that if I was to smoke someone right here, they wouldn’t hear it out there.” I told him not to worry, I’d talk to my guy, but I had to do it my way. He respected that.

  As we left the side room I bumped into a short, roided-out live wire with a shaved head. He looked like my shorter, wider twin. Joby had moved on.

  The live wire asked, “What the fuck? You’re fucking Bird, aren’t you?” He stabbed his finger at me, tapping me hard right where the bullet had come out of my chest.

  “Yeah. That’s right.”

  “Shit! I’m fucking Dirty Dan. And I need to talk to you. Come with me.” I followed this prison gangster to an empty corner of the clubhouse, preparing to be become a human sacrifice. He turned suddenly, barking, “I heard all about you, Bird. You’re some kind of crazy fucking cowboy, ain’t you? Shit, brother, I love that.”

  The veins bulged from his neck and his face turned red. He spat when he talked. I fed off his energy and he fed off mine.

  He asked about Mexico. I said I went to Mexico often. He said he’d heard there were Mongols down there. I said there were, but not too many. He said that as soon as his parole was up, he’d like to come with me, see if we could find some. I said great. He said find some and then kill ’em. I said awesome. He said we’d be a two-man massacre crew. I said, “Dirty Dan, you’re the kind of Hells Angel I’ve been waiting to meet.” He said that he liked the way I carried myself, that the club needed more guys like me.

  I was perversely flattered and thrilled to have stumbled onto what I considered a real-deal Hells Angel. No Toy Runs or public parties for Dirty Dan. Just riding and beating and fucking. Amen, brother.

  Af
ter several minutes we parted company just as abruptly as we’d come together. We agreed to meet and work out at the gym. He yelled, “All right! Later, Bird.”

  I yelled, “Later, Dirty Dan.”

  We’d been in a complete bubble. Hours after that, when we were winding down at the UC house, Gundo told me that when Dan and I started talking, all eyes turned to us. Our body language looked overly confrontational. Gundo said, “Man, I thought you two were gonna hit the deck. I was leaning against the bar with my hand on my gun, getting ready to pull out. I thought we were about to be in the middle of an ass-beating shoot-out.”

  I laughed and said, “You kidding me? That guy kicked my confidence up about a thousand notches. I fucking loved that guy.”

  February 2. The Solo Angeles–Hells Angels love-fest had one more engagement: the Florence Prison Run. It was the anniversary of my first run the previous year, when I was a Bullhead nobody riding with Mesa Mike. Oh, how the world had turned.

  The main drag in town was choked with bikes. We hung out at Yolanda’s bar, drinking light beer and bullshitting. A band played. Ghost took the stage and sang a song. He was pretty good. Everyone was happy to be there. In spite of all the rival clubs in attendance, the mood was easy and there weren’t any beefs.

  We rolled into the desert. All two thousand plus of us. The cops could do nothing but watch, and it was glorious.

  No longer relegated to the back of the line, we were fully integrated into the Hells Angels’ thundering column. We rumbled through the dust, all the colors of all the clubs flying. We were surrounded by our Red and White brothers, the Eight-Ones. All the Arizona Hells Angels charters were there: Nomads, Cave Creek, Mesa, Tucson, Phoenix, Skull Valley. Beyond them were all the states and many of the countries with Hells Angels charters. We banked wide around a turn and passed the yard. JJ casually slung her arms around my waist and I gunned forward, the orange jumpsuits standing at attention while we yipped and yelped like pound dogs. Timmy, Pops, JJ, and I all had orange bandannas wrapped around our heads. They were the same color as the jumpsuits. I screamed as loud as I could: “Orange Crush!! Orange Crush!! Orange Crush!!” Timmy joined in. It was for the guys locked up, but really it was for us, our little inside joke. We were the Solo Angeles Nomads, our colors were black and orange, and we were the Orange Crush.