No Angel

by Jay Dobyns

  Jack drew me a Father’s Day card and handed it to me when I was zoning out on the couch. I opened it. On the left was a gun with a tracking line drawn from the barrel and through the chest of a figure—me—on the right. Below that was another picture of me, lying on a hospital gurney. There was a splatter of red ink where the bullet hit me, and above that the word “ding!” The caption at the bottom read HAPPY FATHER’S DAY, I HOPE THIS NEVER HAPPENS TO YOU AGAIN. LOVE, JACK.

  The card broke my heart. I rubbed his head. I told him that Slats had a whole team of guys who always looked out for me. I said they wouldn’t let anything bad happen. I told him if he didn’t believe me, he could ask his mother and she’d tell him it was the truth.

  He ran along and my mind turned back to work.

  My professional situation was untenable and I knew it. It wasn’t just that prospecting was going to be unbearable. It was also going to be a hard sell in terms of operational viability. The bosses would be resistant to funding our adventures as would-be bikers, especially since I knew Slats wasn’t behind the effort 100 percent. I was fighting a two-front battle, one I thought I could win, on both sides, with the implementation of my simple idea.

  My mind was tuned to blood, and the particulars of shedding it.

  A few days before I went back to Phoenix, my best friends from high school came by—John Williams and Scott Hite. They thought they’d surprise me. They didn’t. I could smell them coming. Only a downwind cougar could’ve snuck up on me. I smiled at the window as they walked up. They were dressed in khakis and golf shirts—one white, one light blue. They had on gold watches and golf spikes. One wore a black Titleist hat. They were members of Jay Dobyns’s suburban life, not cops. They were fathers and husbands—mysteries. Here were two men I’d known for almost thirty years, and only by force of will could I remember what either of them did for a living.

  They knocked on the glass. I didn’t get up. I swiped my hand through the air. Scott slid the door open.

  “Hey, man.”

  “What’s up, dudes?”

  “Not much.”

  They stared at me like I was a captive animal in a life-size diorama—The Federal Agent at Home.

  John finally said, “Jeez, Jay, you look like a fucking junkie, you know that?”

  I tried to laugh. “Yeah. Thanks a lot.”

  Scott asked, “Wanna come out for a round?”

  I dug myself into the couch a little more. “Naw, I’m busy.”

  They shrugged, we bullshitted a little more, and they wandered off.

  I turned off the TV. I watched the golf course. Unlike me, it never changed.

  GWEN ASKED ME to go with Dale one Sunday morning to pick up her new guitar. I said I didn’t know if I could, but when I saw how excited Dale was, I realized I’d be happy to do it. Gwen gave me the address. The shop was a few blocks from Mac’s Black Rose tattoo parlor.

  It was before noon on a Sunday, and I wasn’t too worried that we’d run into Mac or anyone else. Nevertheless, the kids and I had established a few simple gestures that would indicate to them, should the need ever arise, that we were about to be approached by one of my “bad guys.”

  We went to the store. The clerk brought out a full-sized Fender Sonoran acoustic, a new case, and a cloth rainbow strap. Dale held it in front of her and strummed it, felt its weight and twirled it around. She smiled and nodded. I paid the balance and we walked out.

  The bell on the door rang as it shut. I held Dale’s hand. I looked up from her and standing in front of us stood Robert “Mac” McKay.

  I gave Dale a squeeze. She squeezed back.

  I let go of her hand and shook Mac’s. Gave him a hug. I said, “This is my kid.”

  He leaned in close to her and said, “Pleasure to meet you, little lady. You got one hell of a dad here.”

  Dale was as cool as could be. She said thanks without a trace of nervousness. He asked what we were up to, and I told him that I’d been promising Dale a new guitar for months. She held it up. There was no reason for me to lie. Mac was in good spirits, but before we parted he pulled me aside and said intensely, “Where the fuck is your cut, Bird? Represent!” Then he turned to Dale and, in a honey-dipped voice, repeated that he was pleased to meet her.

  After we got into the car, Dale asked, with all the innocence of youth, “That was a Hells Angel?”

  “Yup.”

  “He didn’t seem like such a bad guy. He was pretty nice, I thought.”

  “He was on his best behavior. Don’t be fooled—that guy is bad news. You ever see him again, walk the other way.”

  “OK.”

  “Promise me.”

  “OK! I promise.”

  I put my hand on her knee and pulled out of the parking spot.

  ON THE THIRTIETH I got a call from Bobby, who wanted me to call Timmy to tell him he needed to call Bobby. I asked him why he didn’t just call Timmy himself, and he bellowed, “Because I’m calling you, motherfucker!”

  I called Timmy. Timmy called Bobby. Then Timmy called me back. He said Bobby had ordered him to pick up a package at Cave Creek from Spa Bob, the Cave Creek P who’d succeeded Hoover, and bring it to Skull Valley the next morning. He said Bobby had told him not even to think of opening it.

  After getting it, Timmy called and said, “I couldn’t open this thing if I wanted to, not without them knowing. It’s a shoebox wrapped in about ten layers of duct tape.”

  “So, what’re you doing?”

  “I talked to Slats. We’re going to X-ray it.”

  “Awesome. Let me know. Me, Pops, and JJ’ll be at Casa Trailer by midnight.”

  He called me later and told me the package, which was very light, appeared to contain three strips of cloth. Our bottom rockers.

  The next day was church. There were some guests of honor at the clubhouse—Bad Bob, Pete Eunice, and Marcus, the London P. When we walked in they didn’t look happy. Joey shuffled around the entrance, his head hung in what looked like a mix of shame and anger. Joby stood next to him, his arms crossed. Bobby tapped a wooden ax handle on the palm of his right hand. Pete spun the cylinder of a .38 revolver, snapped it out, snapped it back into place, spun it again. When we all got inside, Joby suddenly turned to Joey, who had moved into the open doorway, and shoved him in the chest. Bobby crept behind him, arms crossed, sunglasses down. Joby yelled, “Get the fuck out of here!” to Joey, who backpedaled, his face still hung low. I looked to Bobby for a clue to what was going on. He didn’t have time for me. Joby repeated, “Get the fuck out of here!” and Joey turned and slunk away. Rudy got up, grabbed Timmy by the arm, and told him to come with him. They left.

  In addition to whatever was going on with Joey—I later found out he’d screwed around with another member’s old lady without his permission—Bobby was pissed about dinner. He’d sent Staci out to get it—we knew JJ had met her while she was out—and now they were late. “Those bitches better be here soon with our fucking grub or it’s lights out.” I nodded. Teddy told Pops to wait outside and keep an eye on the grounds. Pops left.

  Everyone turned to me. Pete, still holding his revolver, placed it in the front of his waistband, resting his hand on the rubber butt. Bobby tapped the ax handle. Joby closed the door and leaned against it next to Marcus. They stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at me. Bad Bob was in the back of the room, smoothing his hair.

  Teddy removed the tubes from his nose and started to talk. He growled, “Ya gonna have to leave too, Bird.” I didn’t say anything. Teddy was legitimately terrifying. He wielded his infirmity like a blunt weapon. He continued, “I know ya’ve been doing ya best, but it ain’t good enough. Y’ain’t got what it takes to be a Hells Angel.”

  “Get the fuck out.” It was Bobby.

  I took a deep breath. “No fucking way. You can kick me out, but I ain’t walking out. I got too much in this.” As I said the words it occurred to me that they were monumentally true. “You want me gone, you’re gonna have to lift me up and throw me out.” />
  I was pretty sure it was bullshit, but witnessing Joey’s ouster gave me some lingering doubts. Maybe they were cleaning house? If they’d boot Joey, they’d boot anyone. Still, Teddy’s words were familiar. I’d run the same game for Jesse when we patched him Solo, as Bad Bob had witnessed. I knew they had our bottom rockers. In addition, I knew I was the best damn prospect they’d seen in years. I had the drive, the toughness, and the arrogance that Hells Angels love. This was my life and they knew it. I was going to be a Hells Angel, and I was going to be one of the best.

  Teddy smiled. “OK. If that’s the way you feel, I guess I’m going to have to give you a second chance.” He reached behind him and stood up in one motion. When he turned to face me, he was holding an Arizona bottom rocker. Bobby told me to stand up. Everyone smiled. Bobby and Joby patted me on the back. I took the rocker. Teddy gave me a bear hug. The old guy could still muster a lot of strength when he wanted to.

  As we separated, Teddy said, “We’re doing ya partners next. Ya keep quiet and pretend like we just stole ya lunch money.”

  I said all right. An hour later the three of us were official Hells Angels prospects. We pinned our rockers on with the safety pins Timmy carried with him. Bad Bob pointed at the pins and said, “Damn, you guys really got it covered.” I smiled at him. He told me he was proud of me—of us—and that he knew we’d get patched quickly.

  I hoped so, but I just said, “As long as it takes.”

  Bobby said, “That’s my boy.”

  My phone rang.

  “Yeah, Bird.”

  “Hey, Daddy.” It was Dale. She sounded happy. The volume on my phone was up, and Dale’s little-girl voice could be heard before I could click it down.

  “Hey. What’s up?” The guys listened to me.

  “Nothing much. Just calling to say hi, that I like my guitar.”

  “That’s great, but I’m pretty busy right now. You got something you need, or are you just bothering me?”

  “Daddy, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I just don’t have the time to deal with you right now unless you have some kind of emergency.” Silence. “I guess not. Look, I’ll call you later. Bye.”

  “Bye—” I flipped shut.

  Bobby asked who that was. I said, “It’s one of Big Lou’s guys.” He laughed. Joby smiled. Teddy too. They knew I was lying.

  I looked at Timmy and Pops. They knew I never talked to one of “Big Lou’s guys,” I only ever talked to Big Lou. They correctly assumed it was Gwen, Dale, or Jack, and they both had looks on their faces like I was the biggest prick in the world.

  I was, but I truly didn’t care. I’d just gotten my bottom rocker, and I wasn’t going to spoil it by taking the time to have a chat with my little girl. I was so upside-down with who I’d become that I’d been willing to lose my daughter’s and my own respect in the service of a case. I was consumed with a mixture of exultation, indifference, and hate. I could only make real-time decisions, and invariably I made those with the lone goal of maintaining my credibility in the eyes of the Hells Angels, my new brothers.

  I knew they knew I’d just hung up on my daughter, and I knew they approved.

  As if reading my mind, Bobby approached, nodding gravely. He said quietly, “That’s right, Bird. You have to give up everything—your family, your life, your woman, your job, your money, your car, your dog—to be a fucking Hells Angel. We did, and you will too.” His hand held my shoulder firmly.

  Then Teddy announced, “Boys, as Hells Angels I can promise you three things: violence, jail, and death.”

  If I’d been in a more sober frame of mind I might have burst out laughing, yelling, “That’s your fucking sales pitch?” But as it was, I just nodded. They told the truth. I was prepared to play along precisely because I believed I was the one who would send them to jail.

  It was right after this that Staci and JJ arrived with the food. As we heard the gravel of the driveway under the tires, Bobby said, “That better be them,” and when he confirmed it was, he added, “She better have gotten in a bad fucking accident, she’s so late,” and when he found out she hadn’t, and was completely drunk, he growled, “That’s it. She’s catching one tonight.” I quickly went up to JJ and told her to stay in the car, hand me the food, and drive away. I couldn’t be put in the position of being ordered to beat JJ. She said OK, Staci got out, and then she left.

  Bobby took Staci roughly by the arm, the food she was carrying falling onto the ground in a pile of take-out boxes. He dragged her yelling into their apartment on the ground floor of the clubhouse. We brought the food inside. Teddy ordered us to secure the perimeter while they ate and talked club business. We went outside. Bobby emerged from his apartment fifteen minutes later. I was too far away to see how he looked. There was no sign of Staci.

  Later on, out in the fields down from the clubhouse, Timmy asked, “Was that Dale on the phone in there?”

  “Yeah. It was.”

  “You have some fucking nerve.”

  “What was I supposed to do? Go lovey-dovey on her right after getting mud-checked? I don’t think so. Those guys like shit like that, you know that.”

  “I don’t give a fuck what they like. Call her back.”

  “I’ll talk to her later.”

  “I’m not asking you. Call her back.”

  I knew he was right. I also knew he could kick my ass in about two seconds. I said, “OK, OK.”

  I called. Dale was still crying. I apologized and tried to explain my situation. Gwen grabbed the phone and laid into me. “Jay, do not ever, ever speak to our children like that again! They’re not props. Do you understand?” I told her I did, though I didn’t believe it. Fuck her, she had no idea what I was into. She asked me again if I understood. I said I did. Why Gwen didn’t say she was leaving me right then, I don’t know. I asked to speak with Dale. I suddenly realized what I’d done. For a moment I reverted to Jay Dobyns. I told her the guy who said those things wasn’t me, he was someone else, I didn’t mean those things, I loved her so much, I was glad she liked the guitar. She settled down but was still upset. I promised her I’d make it up to her. I asked her if she could forgive me. She was a child, what was she supposed to say other than yes?

  I hung up. Anger bubbled inside me, but I didn’t know where to direct it. I hated the Angels, I hated ATF, I hated Timmy for making me apologize, I hated my wife, I hated my family, I hated myself, then I hated the Angels again and repeated the cycle. I tamped my hatred down and tried to stay cool. I told Timmy that Dale was all right. I sounded convincing, he believed me. Or pretended to. I apologized to Timmy and he said it was OK, we were all under a lot of stress. I wanted someone to blame for what I’d become and every person I knew raced through my brain, but it was me. I was to blame.

  The truth, however, was that I’d been all too willing to sell my family down the river if I thought it would curry some favor with the Hells Angels. I thought, perhaps foolishly, that my family would ultimately understand, that if given an inch it was OK, even expected, for me to take a mile. The truth was that by then I wouldn’t have hesitated in doing what I did to Dale again. Bobby’s words came back to me: “You have to give up everything to become a Hells Angel.” His words had sounded ridiculous to me, but suddenly they made a grotesque kind of sense. I felt pathetic. No. I was pathetic.

  I was more Bird than Jay Dobyns. My transformation was almost complete.

  When we were called back to the house, Bobby wanted to know who I was talking to on the phone. I told him I was lining up a big deal in Culiacán, Mexico, for later that week. I said we’d have to be out of town for a little while, but that we’d be back for the next church meeting on June 6. Bobby said OK, they’d known what they were getting into when they brought us up, and they’d promised us our freedom when it came to business. I said thanks. Joby told me to be on the lookout for thirty or so handguns he could distribute to the San Francisco charter so they could arm local and sympathetic street gangs. I tol
d him I would. The following day, June 1, we left Prescott for a breather.

  Slats was not at all enthused with the bottom rockers, but I could’ve given a fuck. If I was prepared to write off my family, I wouldn’t bat an eye doing the same to a co-worker, even one of Slats’s stature. This was a golden opportunity I had worked too hard to accomplish. There was nothing Slats could do to stop me. I’d developed a hero syndrome: I was bound and determined to save the day, no matter the cost and against all odds. I felt like it was up to me and only me to make all of it work.

  By then, the task force was solidly split into two groups, one headed by Slats and the other by Timmy and me. For Slats’s group the bottom rockers represented a new, exhausting phase in the investigation. They meant months—maybe years—of additional work. They meant that the pace we’d been running at over the past several weeks would continue and, in all likelihood, intensify. My group believed that once we got patched, the evidence would get better; we’d be brought into the Hells Angels’ inner circle. Joby’s request for thirty firearms was a good indication of this belief. If we could do a sale of that size—across state lines, no less—then we’d have a nice addition to the RICO. I knew it was just the tip of the iceberg. Timmy was becoming more demonstrative with Slats. He lobbied passionately to see this through to its utmost ending. The Black Biscuit pot hadn’t boiled over, but it was foaming and bouncing on the burner.

  Timmy and I met with the task force on the fourth, back at the Patch. I told them not to worry, that I had a plan to get us in quick. I said it was risky and that we might not pull it off, but that if we did, it would ensure our position. Naturally, they wanted to know what it was. I told them I couldn’t go into details yet, but that I’d do so the following week—that was a promise.