No Angel

by Jay Dobyns

  “You’re a lifesaver, sir. Maybe I’ll see you around this weekend.”

  “I doubt it, Mister Hells Angel Wannabe.”

  “I’ll talk to you later, sir.”

  “Tell Slats he owes me a lap dance.”

  I flipped shut.

  Bobby stared at me. “Well? What’s up?”

  “Nothing much. Just comped suites at the Hard Rock and a couple rooms at MGM for Timmy and Pops.” I drew hard on my smoke and threw it down. Timmy looked at me and smiled. Bobby looked at me and smiled. It was the first time I’d seen him do that. Joby came out of the house with a small duffel over his shoulder.

  “Well?”

  Bobby chuckled at Joby. “You can sleep in the dirt if it makes you feel better. But I’ll be hanging in my suite with my old lady, thank you very much.” Joby said no shit and Bobby, patting me on the back, said no fucking shit, Joby.

  I popped a few Hydroxycuts while we finished getting ready. I needed the pills for the ride—a long, boring 235 miles through some of the most barren land you’ve ever seen.

  We cruised through Chino Valley—the area north of Prescott where the Skull Valley clubhouse stood—under a wide blue sky raked by lines of puffy clouds. Joby and Bobby were up front—Joby packed double with his girlfriend, Caroline—and Timmy, Pops, and I fell in behind our Angels superiors. JJ and Staci orbited us in the truck, sometimes passing, sometimes falling back. We rode fast.

  Through the rain, as it turned out. The good weather didn’t last. An hour out, the sky turned black and churned in front of us. We rode into the teeth of an Old Testament rainstorm at eighty miles an hour. Normal bikers on a weekend ride might stop, if they didn’t like getting wet, or if they had a cautious bone in their body. But rain was another of those things that wasn’t worth considering in the Hells Angels’ world.

  We sliced through Kingman, rounding the Purple Heart Trail, and turned north onto 93. We picked up a Nomad hangaround named Elton Rodman at a gas pump in Grasshopper Junction, a few miles outside of Kingman. He rode in the back with us. The Martian landscape of northwestern Arizona, soaked with rain, took on rust-and purple-colored hues. The ground around the road ran thick with Sedona red mud.

  The skies dried as we crossed the state line at the Hoover Dam. We rumbled over its tall, arcing road, the white towers at either end watching over us and a few undaunted, ponchoed tourists. The deep blue of Lake Mead peeked around the corner of the barren hills to the north and east. Ten minutes after we crossed, the rain started again. Bobby and Joby didn’t slow down. We kept the throttle at eighty-five, ninety miles per hour. I couldn’t help but think of JJ in the truck, warm and dry and no doubt amused. I also feared that I might be hydroplaning and was seconds away from slamming into a guardrail at a very unhealthy velocity.

  The cover team followed us at a distance of thirty or forty miles. When they got to Vegas they’d hook up with Gayland, whom I thought about as we made our way to Vegas. Something I’d said to him—the thing about seeing him later—replayed in my mind. It struck me around Henderson, right outside of Vegas proper: If Bobby was interested, we might be able to throw together a show for him. Gayland could get one of the metro cops I knew to play the part of Big Lou. I’d have to get Slats to sign off, but as we sloshed through the desert I felt like I deserved the chance to make an impromptu play. I’d call them as soon as we checked in.

  We roared onto the strip around six, and made our way to the Hard Rock. We pulled in looking like a pack of drowned rats. The valets tried not to stare at us as they attended to the normal procession of cars containing tourists and minor television stars. Two security guards approached as we unassed. They were big guys in nylon jackets with earpieces.

  “Excuse us, gentlemen.”

  Bobby said, “Hey, how ya doing?”

  “You’re staying with us at the Hard Rock Hotel?”

  Bobby faced them. We gathered behind him. The guards weren’t scared. “That’s right,” Bobby said. “We got suites, actually.”

  “That’s great. But it’s our policy here that you will not be allowed to wear your jackets inside the hotel.”

  Joby spat. Bobby said, “Fuck you.”

  A guard asked, “Excuse me?”

  “Fuck you. I wouldn’t take my vest off to shit in this place even if a greasy turd was running down the back of my leg.”

  I dialed my cell as I put a hand on Bobby’s shoulder. Joby repeated something about sleeping in the dirt as Gayland came on the other end.

  “Sir, we’re by the valets, getting jacked by security. They say we can’t come in with our cuts on. We ain’t taking them off.”

  Gayland chuckled. “No problem. Give me a minute.” He hung up.

  I told Bobby it was being taken care of. He didn’t believe me—he was climbing back onto his bike. One of the guards put a finger on his earpiece so he could hear better. He grasped the lapel of his jacket and said ten-four. Then he said, “I’m sorry, gentlemen. There was a misunderstanding and we apologize for the mistake. Please go in whenever you’re ready. Welcome to Las Vegas. Welcome to the Hard Rock.”

  Bobby smiled again. This was possibly the first time ever Bobby had smiled twice in one day. He got off his bike and gave me a hard slap on the back. “‘Gentlemen.’ You hear that shit? Fuckin’ A, Bird, when we get settled, call my room.”

  I asked, “What’s up?”

  He yelled, “Just call my fucking room after you take a shower!”

  Fine.

  We checked in. Each couple got a room. JJ and I took turns in the shower. It felt good to wash off the road. When I called Bobby, he asked if I was planning to see Lou while we were in Vegas, and if I was, could he meet him?

  “So you want me to set something up?”

  “Fuck, yes, Bird, that’s what I’m trying to tell you!”

  “Big Lou isn’t too into meeting new people, but I’ll see what I can do. Give me a few minutes.” We hung up. I called Slats. He conferenced in Gayland. We thought it sounded good. We could intro him and talk around a gun deal we could complete the next day. I asked if we could get a load of prop guns to make it look like a big haul. Slats said no problem. I reminded Gayland that whoever he got to play Big Lou, the guy had to come on hard, like a real-deal crime boss. He said it wouldn’t be a problem. They said they needed half an hour to throw some things together. They’d call me back.

  I went into the suite’s living room. JJ watched Jeopardy. I heard her say, “What’s a terrapin?”

  I joked, “I’ll take assholes for one hundred, Alex.”

  She perked up, remembering where we were. “What’s up?”

  “What’s up is that you, me, and Bobby are going to go meet Big Lou.”

  “Really? Why do I have to go?”

  “’Cause Big Lou wants to see you too, sweetheart.”

  She rolled her eyes and climbed out of the couch, sighing about me making her work too hard.

  Slats called to tell me when and where. I hung up and called Bobby. “It’s on.”

  He whispered with excitement. “Really? What should I wear?”

  I said incredulously, “What you always do, Bobby.”

  “He really wants to see me?”

  “No, Bobby, he wants to see me and you just happen to be coming along. Who he really wants to see is JJ.” I changed the subject. “How’s the room?”

  “Great. Staci won’t shut up about how great it is, anyway. But five bucks for a bag of M&M’s is fucking nuts, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, these places get you coming and going.”

  “You got that right,” he agreed.

  “Look, JJ and me’ll meet you in the lobby at ten. No Staci.”

  “Are you kidding? I couldn’t get her out of the room if I laid down a trail of speed to the slots. I’ll see you then.”

  “Cool. See you then.”

  WE GOT IN the truck and made our way to PT’s Pub. Halfway there my phone rang.

  “Yeah, Bird.”

  “It’s
Slats. Listen—Gayland couldn’t get any of the guys you know to play Lou.”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  “No. But don’t panic. The show’s still on. Gayland’s got a guy he says’ll be terrific. Says you won’t have any problem figuring out who he is.”

  “Fuck me. OK. We’ll be there soon.”

  “Bobby with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  He chuckled, saying, “Tell Reinstra I told him to go fuck himself.” He hung up.

  Bobby asked if everything was OK. I told him everything was better than OK, Big Lou just won fifty grand beating the spread on the Mets game. Bobby raised his eyebrows and nodded, impressed. I had to cover myself and hoped he wouldn’t bring it up at the meeting.

  We pulled into the parking lot and got out. I didn’t like going into this kind of situation blind. All of a sudden I didn’t know anything about a guy I’d supposedly known for years.

  The bar was open and dark, with a low ceiling. Red neon lights framed the booths, flat-panel screens above the bar showed baseball games and horse races. There was a Keno game tucked into a far corner. I saw Slats and Gayland. They glanced at us and then turned their attention back to a game. It was casual and well played. If they hadn’t checked us out—like every citizen in the bar was doing—it would’ve been as suspicious as staring us down.

  I looked for my guy in Vegas.

  I didn’t have to look for long.

  From the back of the bar a short, wide, balding guy, whose remaining hair was slicked back in shiny streaks, walked toward us with open arms. He had on large, square eyeglasses with an amber tint in the top half of the lens. He was about sixty. He wore a dark suit—it was hard to tell the exact color in that light—with a chalk-line pinstripe, a checkered blue shirt, and a solid red tie. He had a pinkie ring and a brass tie clip. His black tasseled loafers were glossed to a high shine. Two very large guys—one fat, one just cranked with muscles—moved slowly behind him. They wore matching track suits.

  I thought it was just too much. Cookie-cutter wiseguys.

  And then he started to talk.

  “Jaybird! My guy! JJ! Come over here wheres I can see you.” He dipped his head and shook his fingers in the air, beckoning us closer. I went to him. He reached up, grabbed my neck, pulled me down, and planted a loud kiss on each cheek. When he was close to the ear farthest from Bobby, he whispered, “Don’t worry. We’re good.”

  He pushed me back and looked me over. I held him by the shoulders. Locked together, I said, “Mister Lou. It’s been too long since we’ve seen each other in the flesh.”

  “You ain’t fuckin’ kiddin’. And look at this”—Lou was a “dis” and “dat” guy—“JJ. What’s it been—a year? More?”

  “Yeah. More than that, Lou,” said JJ, tossing it out like Lou was her favorite uncle. “I can barely remember.”

  “But I’ll never forget you. Never, my darling.” He moved toward her, took her right hand, and actually kissed it.

  I thought we were done. The guy was too much. I wanted to look at Bobby or Slats or Gayland—anyone whose face would tell me if it was working—but I knew I couldn’t.

  Lou graciously directed JJ to a reserved booth and snapped for a waitress. He told JJ we had business to discuss and suggested she take it easy. She sat down. I said, “Lou, this is that guy I was telling you about.”

  Lou looked at Bobby as if for the first time. He squinted and said, “Yeah, all right,” like Bobby had asked him a question.

  Bobby held out his hand and introduced himself. Lou took it and gave it a cursory shake. “How ya doin’.” Lou looked at me and gave me a small shrug. Then he let go of Bobby’s hand and stared him dead in the eye. “You said Bobby, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good, good. Now listen here, Hells Angel Bobby, sit the fuck down!” The goons stepped forward menacingly. Bobby was so shocked he promptly sat. He must’ve been battling some strong urges to pound the old guy into the carpet—no one talks to a Hells Angel like that and gets away with it.

  Lou stabbed a thick index finger at the air in front of Bobby and said, “Now listen good, Bobby,’ cause I only say things once. I don’t give a midnight fuck about the Hells Angels. I care about you as much as I care about fucking pussycats. You do what you do, I do what I do. Thing is, my gang is bigger than yours, badder than yours, and meaner than yours. And sure as shit, my gang is smarter than yours,’ cause we don’t walk around town with no fucking logo on our back that says ‘Wiseguy.’ You, I can see you coming a mile down the street. Me, you don’t know if I’m standing next to you at Mickey D’s. You capeesh?” He pointed at me. “Anything happens to this guy here while he’s doing this Hells Angel thing, you answer to me. He makes money for me. He carries money for me. I trust him to take more money across the country than you’ll see in ten years. He wants to ride bikes, do this motorcycle club bull shit, that’s his thing. But if that shit overlaps with my life, fucks me outta so much as a quarter—if he gets hurt or can’t come to work for me when I call, well … the Hells Angels are gonna be disappointed, I’ll tell you what. I’ll start burning down houses with the doors locked from the out side. Or maybe I go easy on your guys and one day they find you lying on the floor, all blue and gray, having had a little accident with a dry-cleaning bag. I’m sayin’ it to you, all right? Now, you’re a smart man, Hells Angel Bobby. Give me a minute with Jay.” He took me by the arm and led me to the back of the room, one of the bodyguards staying by Bobby and JJ, the other trailing us at a respectful distance.

  I would’ve given every penny I had to see Bobby’s face. But we all had a part to play, and I played mine.

  When we were out of earshot, I told the guy it was nice to meet him. He said the same, but that I was smaller than he’d imagined. He said he thought all bikers were built like linemen. I said not all. He asked me how we were doing. I said we were doing good, but maybe it was a little over the top? He held up his hand. “I know how a crime boss thinks. Made guys really don’t give a midnight fuck about Hells Angels or whatever they are. Wiseguys were making money before there was even such a thing as a motorcycle, and they’ll be making money when those guys are gone. Trust me, Jay, we’re doing good.”

  “All right, dude, keep going. No point in changing course now.”

  “That’s the spirit. Now go bring that guy over here, we’ll straighten him out.”

  “OK.” I went and got Bobby. We went back to Lou. I could hear Slats and Gayland laughing their asses off, just two guys in a bar having a good time.

  Lou said, “Sorry about that, Bobby, we just gotta understand each other.”

  Bobby said, “Yes, sir.”

  Slats and Gayland laughed again.

  Lou said, “Jay tells me you might like to do some work for me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He pulled a long Cohiba from inside his jacket and held it in his fist. “I like you, Hells Angel Bobby. You know when to talk and when to shut the fuck up. I’ll let Jay know when we can use you. And when we do use you, don’t fuck up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He turned to me. “Jay, I got a mess of guns coming through tomorrow. You know me and guns—I won’t keep ’em around. I wanted you to have first crack at them. You want ’em, great, no, that’s no shakes either. I’ll give you a call.”

  “Thanks, Lou.”

  “No problemo. Well, that’s it, boys. Drinks and dinner are on me tonight. I gotta make a date.” He moved past us and walked up to JJ. “JJ, as always, I’m enchanted. I don’t know why you hang out with this guy, but he’s lucky for it. Take care of him.” And with that he left, his bodyguards silently drifting behind him.

  I sat down next to JJ, Bobby sat across from us. He was entranced.

  I asked, “Well, whaddaya think?”

  Bobby took a breath. “I think that guy’s just like the guys back East. I hadn’t seen one in so long I’d forgot.”

  “Forgot what?” JJ asked.

/>   “Those kinda guys are real fucking badasses. Yeah, I think it’s good. I hope when my time comes I can prove myself, make Lou proud.”

  I lit a cigarette. “I’m sure you will, Bobby, I’m sure you will.”

  I CALLED GAYLAND later on, after I’d seen Bobby to his room.

  Gayland asked, “So, how was our guy?”

  “He was good. Almost too good. Bobby bought the whole thing, though, said Lou was a real-deal gangster. I don’t know where you got him, last minute, but he was good.”

  “He better’ve been good. He’s New Jersey mob. He came out here and fucked up. We caught him and got him to flip. He wasn’t faking it, Jay. Unlike you, he is the real deal.”

  33

  “GET ME THAT BROWN MUSTARD, NOT THAT YELLOW SHIT.”

  APRIL–MAY 2003

  BOBBY ACCOMPANIED ME on the completion of the ruse gun deal the next day. It was a nice little haul: an Uzi, two Mac-10s, a silencer, and two AK-47s, both of which were full autos. JJ paid our contact—the task force agent Buddha—five grand in cash and we went our separate ways. For his trouble, I gave Bobby a hundred bucks. I said, “Not bad for five minutes’ work, huh?”

  “Naw. Not at all.”

  I repeated what I’d told Mac: “That’s how easy it is to make money with me, dude.”

  He was impressed.

  Our last night in Vegas we decided to take the girls out to dinner at New York, New York. We hung around the casino floor while Staci and JJ decided where they wanted to eat. Bobby looked uneasy and asked me to take a walk. We strolled outside and stopped on the corner of Las Vegas and Flamingo Boulevards, surrounded by tourists, traffic, and a roller coaster. A blind hot dog vendor stood in front of his cart yelling, “Red hots, getchya red hots here!” It looked like Bobby wanted to get something off his chest but couldn’t find the words, or didn’t want his words overheard. I lit a cigarette and offered one to Bobby, lighting his. “Hey, Bobby, want a dog?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I ordered and gave Bobby his pre-dinner snack. He still wasn’t speaking. I tried to break the ice. “Bobby, you ever think about where you’re gonna be in a year, five years?”