by Jay Dobyns
It hadn’t.
Slats said Alberto was complaining that we’d muscled our way into the club, had never prospected, and weren’t legit. He spoke the truth. Somehow this had gotten back to Chico.
We didn’t know what to do. SOP in a situation like that was to pull the operatives. Mortal and imminent danger was not tolerated or risked. If there was a slight but verifiable chance any of us would be killed, then that was that. Cricket and Slats thought the case was dead. They started to discuss whom they could arrest with what we had.
But I wasn’t so sure we couldn’t get out of it. We had plenty of evidence that corroborated our Solo Angeles backstory, it was just a matter of getting it to the right guy as soon as possible.
That’s when my phone rang again.
“Yeah, Bird.” Everyone in the room was stone silent.
“Bird. It’s Bob.” His voice sounded deeper, more serious.
“What’s up, Bob?”
“We need to talk.”
“What about?”
He cut to it. “You’re a real Solo, right?”
“What the fuck you talking about, Bob?”
“I know you’re really a Solo.” He sounded convinced in an unconvincing way.
“Fucking right I am. What’s going on?”
“We need to talk. It is very urgent.”
“OK.”
“Be alone.”
“OK.”
We agreed to meet at a sports bar on Baseline, a place we’d never been to.
In one hour.
THE ENTIRE TEAM stuffed up with armor and grabbed their long guns. An advance team got to the bar quickly. They took their places and waited. Sat at the bar and did crosswords, feigned watching games on the TVs.
Timmy and Pops were in the surveillance van. Timmy was armed to the teeth. If things broke bad with Bob, I’d likely be fine.
Still, I didn’t have a good feeling about the meeting.
Before leaving the Patch, Slats helped me put together an impromptu package of Solo credentials. Photos and video news footage from the December Toy Run, dues receipts, photos of Pops and Rudy in the Tijuana clubhouse, random flash we’d picked up. We talked dialogue, Slats role-playing Bob, me in role. We’d sell our case to Bob like we’d sell a crime to a prosecutor: physical evidence, historical evidence, and an argument for our position. Breaking character, I asked Slats if he thought Bob was trying to prove to his brothers where his real loyalties lay, if he thought Bob might be taking this opportunity to take me out. We all knew that as I went, so the Solos went. Slats said he wasn’t sure, and if I didn’t want to meet with Bob I didn’t have to. That meant the end of the case. I said fuck that. He said OK then, let’s get out of here.
I drove the Cougar and consumed half a pack of cigarettes. I was openly scared and not proud of it. I called my old buddy Chris Bayless. He talked me down and gave me the old “Jesus Hates a Pussy” speech, finishing just as I pulled into the parking lot.
I went in and walked to the bar. Five minutes later a haggard Bad Bob loped through the door. He looked around as he approached me. He said gravely, “Let’s get a booth.”
We made our way to a quiet corner of the bar and sat down. I put my hands on the table and laced my fingers together. My rings, my rings. They meant something to me. In an instant they reflected all that I’d lied about, all that I’d come to personify, all that I’d risked.
I decided to ignore them, but not before I asked them to protect me.
Bob talked about what was going on. I acted shocked. I didn’t deny the charges that we’d muscled our way in, but I insisted we were legit.
“Your guy’s got it wrong, Bob, I don’t know how else to say it.”
“You understand what you’re saying?”
“Yeah. I don’t mean any disrespect, and I’m not calling them liars, it’s just that they got bad info. We’re legit Solos, Bob. We’ve been doing everything right by you guys—you think it’d be any different with my own damn club?”
“I don’t know shit about your club, Bird—other than you guys.”
“Well, we’re real, man. Believe it, we’re real. Look.” I showed him the photos, I gave him the videotape of the news shows and told him to watch it. I showed him the dues receipts and the flash we’d picked up in Tijuana over the months—T-shirts, stickers, patches. I wrote down Teacher’s number and told him to call him and ask him if we were for real.
“Look, Bird. I want to believe you.” He paused. “I do believe you. But I’m in a bad spot. I gotta call Joanie”—John Kallstedt, the Phoenix charter P—“I gotta call Joanie and tell him you’re all right—a guy none of us have known longer than a year—and Chico’s wrong—a guy I’ve known over two decades. How you think that looks?”
I agreed that it didn’t look good, but I insisted, with expletives, that I was telling him the truth.
He said, “Let’s go outside and have a smoke.”
I said, “Yeah, let’s.” My confidence rose a little.
The bar had a big back porch. No one was out there. Bob got out a pack of cigarettes and fumbled with it while pulling out a smoke. When he went to put the pack away, he couldn’t figure out which pocket to put it in—first the outside left breast, then the right, then finally the inside left. I flipped open my Zippo and offered it to him. The tip of his cigarette was shaking as it glowed orange.
Bad Bob was nervous. My confidence went back in the tank.
Fear fell on me like a ten-foot wave. I hadn’t been so scared in years.
Bob stepped to the edge of the porch and ushered me to the corner. I was completely exposed in three directions.
“I hate these kinds of situations, Bird, hate them.”
I fought back a shaking voice and answered hard: “I don’t like them either.”
“These are the kinds of situations where people get hurt. Bad. You know?”
“I know. But listen—”
He waved his hand through the air. I shut up. I thought that he’d just green-lighted some sniper to remove my head or hollow out my chest. I thought, Jay, you’re dead.
“No. Listen, Bird. I know you’re used to fighting for your life—”
“That’s all I do.” He didn’t know how true that statement was.
“I know. That’s all men like us ever do. But what I’m saying is you ain’t never had to fight us. Am I right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”
He smoked deeply. He turned and walked to the other end of the porch.
This was it.
Head explodes.
Chest caves in.
Air sucks away.
He walked back.
“I’ma call Joanie. I’ma call Joanie and tell him you’re good.”
Exhale. “Good. Thanks.”
“I’m not doing you any favors, understand?”
“Of course.”
“I’m doing this ’cause I know you ain’t shitting me.”
“I know. I ain’t.”
“But you need to do a couple things for me.”
“Anything.”
“No colors till I say. Your Arizona privileges are hereby revoked.”
I wasn’t happy about that, but I said OK.
“You need to clear this shit up, Bird. Motherfuckers cannot be talking shit about their own like this. Fuck, we take better care of you than your own damn club!”
It was true. I said, “Don’t worry. It’ll go away. And I know you look out for us, Bob. I can’t thank you enough.”
He mumbled, “Fuckin’ motherfuckers.” Bob was insulted that the Solos had insulted me. I was too.
He dialed Joanie and told him to back off. He said he’d bring over the stuff I’d given him—the photos, the tape, everything—and that they’d talk to this Teacher motherfucker.
We went back inside. I paid the tab. We walked to the exit. We shook hands solemnly and parted.
I knew I’d just saved the case. I’d pulled a rabbit and a goose and a snake out of my hat
, then fed the rabbit to the snake and watched as the goose laid a golden egg. I’d snowed one of the most influential Hells Angels in the state of Arizona, and it was exhilarating.
I suddenly wasn’t scared. I’d lost all my insecurity.
I was invincible.
I DEBRIEFED WITH Slats in his car outside the Patch. It was just the two of us. He handed me a beer, opened one for himself, downed it, and opened another.
“That sucked,” he said.
“No shit.”
“No, I mean it wasn’t that good. You sold it better at the Patch.”
I couldn’t believe it. I said, “Frankly, Joe, I couldn’t remember what we said at the Patch. But it worked, didn’t it?”
“We’ll see. You put a Band-Aid on this fucker, we’ll see if it heals.”
“It will. You know Bob’ll make it happen.”
“I fucking hope so.”
“It will.”
He drank half of his beer in two gulps.
“But shit’s gotta be better going forward, Jay. I can’t take this fly-by-night stress anymore. You gotta stay on the program.”
“When the fuck did I go off it, Joe?”
“You go off it every fucking day, Jay. Every damn night we say, ‘Tonight’s the night Dobyns goes off the rez and we end up doing a rescue mission.’ We’re taking fucking bets on it, Jay.”
That was news to me. “The fuck, Joe. One day it’s ‘Get me more,’ the next it’s ‘Ease up’? Which way you want me to go? I’m giving everything I got, Joe, I can’t think of how to give you more. This is the way I operate! You knew that going in! It’s why you hired me!”
“Listen, Jay. I know you’re under a lot of stress, but it’s nothing compared to what I deal with. I hired you, but I can pink-slip you too.”
“Excuse me?”
He took a deep breath. “The fact is you’re ten percent of this picture. You and JJ and Timmy and Pops. A crucial ten percent, but only ten percent. I have to deal with all of your shit, plus all of the evidence, all of the surveillance, all of the tech issues, all of the money, all of the approvals, all of the protocols, and all of the personalities. I have to massage everyone’s balls above me and rub everyone’s backs below me. You may feel like you’re the one at the middle of this thing, but you’re wrong.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I lit a cigarette. It was like Slats had intercepted a pass intended for me, and now I was playing defense. “Joe, you may be dealing with a hundred percent of this, but you’re not working any harder than I am. You’re not fricking redlining any more than I am. And you get to go home at night and sleep in a bed with your wife, and your kids are sleeping down the hall! You have any idea the last time I spent every night of the week with Gwen and the kids? I can’t count that fucking high! No. Instead, I get to sleep in a shithole undercover house and half the time our marks are crashing in the living room! While you’re sitting there counting money and typing reports, I’m sitting face to face with a guy who, if he finds out who I am, I’m going to get smoked! So I don’t want to hear how fucking hard it is for you.”
I opened the door, got out, and slammed it shut. I threw my empty beer can as far as I could.
I couldn’t figure out what had gotten into Slats. So I’d gone off script—I was having a fucking conversation, for crying out loud. You can never predict what the other guy will say or do—I had to react on the fly. That was my damn job!
It took a long time for me to cool off. I had a hard time understanding where Slats was coming from. I eventually concluded it was all about control. He felt that if I kept increasing my unpredictability, the reins of Black Biscuit would be taken from him.
I didn’t care about that. It was my case, and as far as I was concerned, he could go to hell.
28
THE IRON SKILLET
MARCH 2003
I TOLD TIMMY and Pops about my argument with Slats. They couldn’t believe it. Timmy was especially mad, since, like me, this was his career, not just something he did for money like Pops. Timmy asked, “Why should we hang our ass out so much for someone who doesn’t think we’re doing a good job?”
I shrugged. “You know—do something right and no one remembers, do something wrong and no one forgets.”
Timmy nodded and said, “Damn straight.”
The truth was that Slats was under more pressure than we were, but neither Timmy nor I was about to admit it. We could only feel our own suffering. We’d each sold our empathy up the river. All that was left was pride, determination, and loyalty.
It was around this time that I started to pop Hydroxycut.
Hydroxycut—a weight-loss pill that suppresses appetite and injects a burst of energy—helped me to focus on whatever was directly in front of me. It was convenient: I could bump the pills anytime and they were readily available—any Walgreen’s carried them. The recommended dosage was no more than six pills in a twenty-four-hour period. That’s where I started.
I needed the energy because I was running ragged. The life of an undercover cop is not one of leisure. I was up every morning at seven, going over notes from the night before or transcribing audio from one of my recorders. The notes couldn’t be half-assed or glossed over, they had to be dead-nuts on. Then I’d do my expenditures, and those had to be to the penny. I kept track of everything—drinks, gas, cigarettes, coffee, food, drugs, guns, tribute payments—everything. Then I’d contact the suspects—some of whom were occasionally crashed out in the living room while I did reports behind my bedroom’s locked door—and set up meetings and deals for the day or week. Then I’d call Slats and go over everything with him. Then I’d meet a task force agent to exchange notes and evidence. Then I’d start making my runs, seeing the boys, hitting the spots—just being seen is a job in itself. Then I’d make my scheduled meetings, do the buys I’d set up, hit the clubhouses, and have conversations. Some days I’d ride from Phoenix to Bullhead and back, others I’d put a hundred and fifty miles on my bike just riding around the Interstate loop in Phoenix. All along I checked in not only with Slats but also with Bad Bob, Smitty, Joby, or whoever else was featured at any given time in the case. While bullshitting with the boys, my mind constantly turned, thinking up new schemes, new ways to build credibility. The sun would set, the heat would dissipate, and the nights would begin. I’d go out and, despite drinking, would try to stay lucid enough to be able to defend myself, JJ, Timmy, or Pops if any of us got made. The stress of being in near-constant mortal danger is what we were trained to endure, but undertaking it day after day is enough to fry anyone. I’d get home, cross myself, smoke cigarettes, down coffee, jot down notes and reminders, and then try to get a few hours sleep before doing it all over again the next day.
It was no coincidence that I started with the Hydroxycut after my argument with Slats. I was drawn too thin but had to keep going—my commitment, ego, and drive wouldn’t allow me to quit. My family was beginning to hate me—if they didn’t already—Slats was up my ass, the HA were getting farther up my ass, I was responsible for the safety of my crew. It was like the movie Groundhog Day, where the guy lived the same day over and over, except that if I got found out I’d get killed—and that would be that. Hydroxycut gave me an energy boost that went beyond the three Starbucks Venti lattes, two-packs of Marlboro Lights, and half-dozen Red Bulls I consumed on a daily basis. I knew the pills weren’t good for me—nothing I did then was good for me—and I knew they’d make me look like a junkie, but I simply didn’t care.
I also started to take them in March because of our up-in-the-air status. Bad Bob’s suspending our right to wear our cuts made me uneasy. I needed to do something that would make me feel rooted to who I claimed to be, so I decided to get sleeved with tattoos. It was something I’d wanted to do for a long time, and I knew it would also boost my credibility, since most cops won’t submit to getting inked-out prison-style.
I’d been checking out Robert “Mac” McKay’s work at his Tucson tattoo parlor, the Black
Rose, for a few months. Mac was very talented, and I knew he’d do a great job on my arms. We’d started discussing my getting sleeved when I’d met the Skull Valley guys in Prescott. He said he’d be happy to hook me up and give me a good deal. I didn’t tell him how good a deal it would be—since it could be tagged as an operational expense, ATF would pick up the tab. I told him I wanted my arms to depict good and evil, since I was neither. He liked that.
I had plenty of tats by then—the Saint Michael on one shoulder, four intertwined strands of barbed wire, which paid tribute to the four ATF agents lost at the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, over the other. Spanning my shoulder blades like a bridge was the word jaybird. These tats were bold but pretty benign.
Getting a tattoo is funny. It always depicts something contemporary about you—a friend dies, a child is born, an epiphany is had—and you get inked. When you get one you think you’re marking something about you that will never change. You think, I’ll always be young, I’ll always put my children above everything else, I’ll always honor the dead. The reality is that while the tattoo remains, the person it’s etched onto changes.
For instance, I had the dates of the deaths of the ATF agents killed at Waco inked onto me along with the strand of barbed wire. But I had to have them covered because I was afraid that someone—specifically, Scott Varvil from the Riverside case—would put two and two together and want to know why I was commemorating an infamous date in ATF’s history. Before I got those dates covered, I asked one of the agents who’d fought at Waco what he thought I should do, and he told me that if they were hindering my ability to work confidently, the guys who’d been killed would absolutely want them blacked out.
I blacked them out, something that for me bordered on sacrilege.
I didn’t think about it too much when I told Mac I wanted my sleeves to depict good and evil. I knew that deep down I was good, but I also knew that in order to survive and do my job well, I had to appear evil. What I didn’t admit was that I was in the process of giving in to my darker tendencies. I’d been tamping down the good in me for months. Ironically, I accepted evil in the service of defeating it.
