No Angel

by Jay Dobyns

  After the meeting I headed out to the Dumpsters for a cigarette. There was no moon, no clouds, nothing to reflect the night lights of Phoenix. The sky was a limitless pool of ink suspended overhead. Slats wandered out. He spat a wad of chaw. It exploded on the pavement. He opened a beer and handed it to me. He had another one for himself. He asked me what I was thinking of doing.

  I drank a few sips of beer and said, “That’s simple, Joe. We’re going to kill a Mongol.”

  36

  CALL TO ARMS

  JUNE 2003

  SLATS DIDN’T LIKE it. He didn’t like it one bit. I didn’t like his not liking it. He said it didn’t make any sense. I said it made perfect sense. He told me that wasn’t what he meant—it did make perfect sense to the Angels, but it didn’t make sense to us. He reminded me, “We’re the good guys.” He said it wasn’t going to happen. He implied that he’d end everything before it came to pass.

  I said, “Fuck you. It’s happening, and it’s happening soon.”

  He took a breath, spat another wad of chaw, and crushed his beer can between his hands. An eerie calmness overcame him. He said, “Jay, murder gets murder. It’s just too risky. Maybe you die, maybe you don’t—shit, maybe you don’t care if you die—but showing these guys a murder? I don’t know. You run the risk of igniting a biker war, a war you could be right in the middle of.”

  He was right, I didn’t care. I said, “Dude, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.” I mashed out my cigarette and walked away.

  I don’t know why Slats didn’t shut down the case right then—in the same way I didn’t know why Gwen hadn’t filed for divorce after I was such a jerk to Dale—but he didn’t. The only thing I can think of now is that he wasn’t ready. He needed more time to get his warrants together. Just a little more time. We both did.

  The race was on.

  I SPOKE TO my old partner Chris. I spoke to Timmy. I spoke to Shawn Wood, a task force agent who was very supportive of our attempting to get patched. I spoke to Chris some more.

  We got a nice little conspiracy going.

  The plan was simple, and the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced it was foolproof. We’d ask the Hells Angels for permission to kill a Mongol, and then we would. We’d do it down in Mexico, where the Angels could corroborate practically nothing. Chris wondered how I could get them to contribute. He asked if I could get a gun from them.

  “Hell fucking yes,” I said.

  Here’s why the plan was foolproof: They couldn’t object. Since Laughlin, the guys were obsessed with killing Mongols. But though they were capable of it, they never went out and hunted them down. Like Dan Danza, the wired Angel whose toughness and aggressiveness I felt a kinship for, I thought this was ludicrous; Mongols weren’t hard to find. They weren’t like Osama bin Laden hiding in Tora Bora—these guys had clubhouses just like the Angels. So I decided I’d become their killer. If Steve Helland, the Angel Nomad, was willing to discuss hiring me to kill his son’s murderer, then why couldn’t I discuss killing a Mongol for the club? And how could they refuse? If they balked I could ask, “What part of ‘If you see a Mongol, kill him’ did I not understand?” If I did it, I’d fulfill their dreams and my potential.

  We’d go through with our plan and either Slats would hastily end the case, or the Angels would kill me for overstepping, or I’d get fired, or I’d get patched. Having had the opportunity to take my best, most violent stab at becoming a Hells Angel, I’d have been happy to accept any of these outcomes, even death. At times, especially death. It was June in Arizona, and my willingness to die increased with the escalation of the mercury. There were even days when I woke up wanting to die. It was never something I was going to do to myself, but it was something I came to expect. It would’ve been so simple, and simplifying. I wouldn’t be around to screw up my family anymore, they’d get a nice insurance check, and the nightmare that had become my life would be over. I knew I’d never quit on my own—this had to be decided for me—so what better way to do that than to die? Without knowing it, my old partner Koz’s joking desire had become my own: I was now the guy who wanted to be duct-taped to a chair and shotgunned in the face. I wanted a good undercover death in the heat of my biggest battle. I wanted to die as the badass I’d become.

  I thought, Fuck it. Maybe it would happen, maybe it wouldn’t. I was a cop, but I was also a Hells Angel. All that was left to do was to take care of business.

  LIFE IS PRETTY disrespectful of obsessions. As I spent all my time calculating and rehashing information and visualizing a crime scene, life went on. On June 6 we got called to guard duty in Dago for the funeral of another fallen Angel.

  There’d been rumors that Timmy, Pops, and I would be guarding Sonny Barger at the World Run to Laconia, New Hampshire, in August—that weekend in Dago was a test run. The big heads were in the house—Sonny, Johnny Angel, and Chuck Zito, along with almost a dozen charter presidents from around the West Coast. I’d been assigned the back door. There was a high wall between the clubhouse and the street and I couldn’t see anything beyond it. Mongols paranoia had rubbed off on me: The whole time I expected a pipe bomb to sail over the wall and blow me and the back of the building to kingdom come.

  But nothing happened. Boredom was my main enemy. But after standing around for about eight hours I got a little surprise. Out of nowhere, standing on the back porch, appeared Sonny Barger. He carried a plate covered with food, and two bottles of beer. He put the food on a folding card table and pushed the cancer kazoo to his trach hole.

  His voice buzzed, “Hot out here, huh?”

  “Sure is, sir.”

  “You can call me Sonny, Bird.”

  “No offense, but until I get my stripes, I’ll call you ‘sir,’ sir.”

  He smiled. He said, “I brought you some food if you want it. You can take a break, I’ll cover for you while you eat.”

  No. There was no way in hell I was going to let Sonny Barger sub for me.

  “I’m all right, sir, I just finished a candy bar.”

  “How about a beer, then?”

  That was an easy one, one that convinced me he was playing a mud-check on me.

  “I appreciate it, but I can’t do that while I’m on duty. My sponsor would set me on fire if he found out.”

  “Suit yourself.” He picked up a roasted chicken leg and bit into it. He drank half a bottle of beer, making a point of sounding refreshed. His electronic voice told me he’d continued to hear good things about me and that we were on the right track. He said he was pleased that we’d decided to come over, to leave that two-bit club behind. I told him I was happy about that too. Then he finished his food and beer in silence.

  He left as suddenly as he’d appeared. He picked up the plates, put one under the other, and said, “Later, Bird,” without the voice box. It was like a gale-force whisper. He was a strong old dude.

  He left the full, ice-cold bottle of beer on the table. I didn’t dare touch it. Was it a mud-check? I wasn’t sure. I knew Sonny genuinely cared about his people. Maybe Sonny even cared for me.

  ON JUNE 12, Joby called in a state of panic. He said we needed to meet ASAP in the Prescott Wal-Mart parking lot.

  When we got there I asked him what was up.

  “We got called in.”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “I mean Teddy’s sending us on a mission. We’re going to Vegas tonight on a protection gig.”

  Pops said, “More guard duty, huh?”

  “This ain’t fucking guard duty, guys. It was, I wouldn’t be going now, would I?” I shrugged. He said, “Listen, we’re going up to support our brothers. Call Timmy, tell him to get all your guns in the Jeep and meet you at the clubhouse. Pops, you stay with me. Bird, go meet Bobby and Timmy and we’ll meet for lunch. I’ll tell you about it then.”

  I buzzed Timmy and told him to meet me at the clubhouse and that we were being invited to a party that was BYOG. He asked, “BYOG?”

  I explained, “Bring your own
gun.”

  He said enthusiastically, “It’s about time. See ya there.”

  I rode to the clubhouse, breaking one of Teddy’s rules: I was a Hells Angel riding alone. Timmy was there when I pulled up. I left him by the Jeep as I went to get Bobby. He was inside his apartment. I waited for him in the entryway. He emerged from the bedroom stuffing a Bersa .38 into his pocket. He yelled to Staci that he was leaving a .22 for her on the kitchen counter.

  Over cheap Mexican food we learned what we were up against. From the minute they started to give details I thought of only one person: Slats.

  There was a coalition meeting in Vegas that night that the Banditos, another rival gang, one much more powerful than the Mongols, had promised to bust up. The Vegas Angels couldn’t allow this, so they’d called in the cavalry. Bobby and Joby both complained that there probably weren’t enough guys willing to answer the call—but that wasn’t us. Skull Valley, along with some guys from Mesa, would represent. Bobby had been ordered to hang back. Rudy wasn’t even considered. It would be me, Pops, Timmy, and Joby, and we’d be armed to the teeth.

  Bobby: “Teddy’ll get you his sawed-off.”

  Joby: “Good. I want the shit that sprays a wide pattern.”

  Bobby: “I wish I were going with you. I’ve been on plenty of these things before—I’d be good.”

  Joby: “Teddy knows what he’s doing. Can’t send everyone. There’d be no one to protect the area. This happens, and they’ll be looking for revenge. Before long we’ll be seeing those motherfuckers in Arizona too. We gotta stay strong down here.”

  Bobby: “I know, but I still wish I was goin’.”

  Joby: “We’ll probably all die.”

  Bobby: “Or go to jail.”

  Joby: “I’ll take death. But he’s right, you know.” He addressed us. “Expect to kill tonight. Expect to shoot. Expect to die, go to jail, or skip country.”

  I thought sarcastically, This is great. We’re going to have to kill for these guys before we get a chance to do it on our own terms.

  We finished lunch and went back to the clubhouse. I needed to get away from them to call Slats, but they were jacked up and I couldn’t get away for even a second.

  Teddy and Bobby looked on as Joby loaded the Jeep with the shotgun, a box of shells, a sap, an ax handle, and three or four knives. Teddy looked distraught. He signaled to us to huddle around him.

  He spoke, contemplating the ground. “I’m not happy about this, but this is what we do. I’m proud of ya and I’m proud of the Hells Angels. Ya be there for them, and they’ll be there for ya. Do what ya gotta do, but I want y’all to come back alive.” He gave each of us a big hug.

  Bobby hugged us too. As he finished with me he grabbed my shoulders and said, “Remember, Bird—a Hells Angel may not always be right, but he is always your brother.”

  Teddy spoke again. “Half of what’s mine is yours. Don’t forget that either.”

  Their words made sense. Even though I’d sworn an oath to fight guys like these, I’d bought into some of their credo. I knew that any of these guys, and more than a few others across the state, would gladly take a bullet for me. In that instant I believed in some of what the Hells Angels stood for. I was genuinely touched.

  We left. I drove. Timmy and Pops rode in the back of the Jeep while Joby made frantic calls to Mesa Angels Ghost and Trigger. He wanted to get a handle on the situation. It sounded like it was definitely happening. I smoked a relay of cigarettes, never pausing to breathe the fresh desert air we passed through. I watched the road, thinking only of Slats. I looked at the gas gauge. We had a quarter tank. Just before Kingman I pulled off to refill. We got out and stretched. Pops filled her up. I went to the can.

  As soon as I was out of sight, I opened up my phone. The line rang. Slats answered.

  “It’s Bird. Listen, we’re in deep. We’re going to Vegas to knock down Banditos at some coalition meeting—tonight. We’ve got a fucking arsenal in the car and we’ve been told in no uncertain terms that we’re expected to use it. You gotta call Gayland and fix us up.”

  He asked why I hadn’t called sooner. I said I’d been with them all day, I had no airspace. I said I had to go, and told him to call back when he’d spoken to Gayland and tell me what’s what. I said I’d make it sound like I was talking to Dale. He said OK.

  Fifteen minutes later my phone rang. We were passing through Golden Valley in Kingman, headed to BHC and into Nevada via Laughlin, because Joby didn’t want to risk a vehicle inspection if we crossed the Hoover Dam. It was Slats. He said he was on his way to Vegas, but that we had a good jump on him. He said Gayland was taking care of it—there wouldn’t be a Bandito within twenty miles of the meeting. He said that Gayland knew where it was taking place and not to worry. Just go up and do what they expected us to do.

  We got there. The lodge’s parking lot was littered with bikes and Angels. Joby called a huddle with me, Timmy, Pops, Ghost, Trigger, Sockem, and a Vegas member named Phil Daskalos. Joby launched into a speech: “All right. If the Banditos show, we’re gonna ambush ’em. Don’t let any of them get off their bikes. Do whatever you have to, understand? Do not let them off their bikes.” He paused and swiped his hand through his long gray mullet. He looked each of us in the eye. “Listen, if you don’t have the stomach for this, then go home now. Come back and try again in a couple years when your balls drop. If you can do it, this is the shit that heroes and legends are made of. We will not fail each other. We are Hells Angels.” I wouldn’t have been shocked if he’d put his hand in the middle of our circle and we started to chant “Eight-One, Eight-One, Eight-One!”

  We broke and were assigned positions. Joby sent Pops and Phil across the street, while he took Timmy and me to a street-side corner of the lot. Trigger, Ghost, and Sockem went to the opposite side of the lot.

  We waited. I smoked like Philip Morris was going out of business. We waited some more. At eight fifteen the meeting broke, the guys got on their bikes, and a column of Hells Angels departed the location. It was over. There were no Banditos. Gayland had done us another favor.

  The group of would-be defenders met at a 76 gas station around eight thirty. We shook hands, glad to have bucked up and even gladder to have not gotten in a shoot-out. Joby said these things happen, better to be prepared than to be shown up or worse. Pops introduced me to Phil. They’d gotten to talking guns while waiting. Phil was very eager to talk to me, said he was the “West Coast hook for HAMC iron.” Said he had all kinds of shit—hand grenades, C4 plastic explosive, Mac-10s, remote-control bombs, silencers. I gave Phil a card and told him to give me a call.

  We went back to Skull Valley.

  In the Jeep, Joby told us over and over how proud of us he was. We dropped him off at his girlfriend’s house in Kingman, giving each other big hugs, saying we’d see each other the next day.

  I called Slats when we got back in the Jeep. He asked if I wanted to talk to Gayland. I did.

  Gayland asked, “How was Vegas?”

  “Awesome. Won on craps and got twelve free lap dances. What happened to our friends?”

  “We knocked some down. Lockup’s hosting a Bandito slumber party tonight. We’ll let ’em go in the morning. Otherwise it’s pretty quiet around here. I think Slats wants to take me out to dinner. He’s been making eyes at me all night.”

  I laughed. I said thanks and told him to tell Slats thanks too. I said, “You saved our ass. Again.”

  SLATS COULD’VE SHUT everything down after that. Evidently the Angels weren’t going to be shy about putting us in dangerous situations, and given enough opportunities, it was only a matter of time until something bad happened because we weren’t in a position of control.

  But Slats let us ride a little longer.

  I took this as encouragement to go ahead with my plan. Letting us go to Vegas meant that Slats, no matter what he said, was prepared to take part in potentially nasty situations. In a way I felt vindicated.

  The Skull Valley boys were also hap
py. When we pulled up to the clubhouse that night, we found Teddy and Bobby waiting up like nervous parents. They hugged us hard. Teddy tried to smile, but was out of practice. He repeated that he hadn’t liked sending us, but that as Hells Angels we all had to chase ghosts. He told us to go home and get some rest.

  After that night, the Skull Valley crew lightened up a little. They still ordered us around, but they made it more obvious that they were just busting our balls. Teddy would wax for five minutes about how he liked his fried chicken: old-style, not overcooked, original recipe, not that extra-crispy shit. He’d give us a little extra money for going out to get it. They started to really respect and like us.

  At church one day, bored, I doodled on some paper plates. I drew stick figures of the guys, their names below their feet. Little bubbles above their heads said things like “I Love Bird” (Bobby) or “Go to McDonald’s” (Teddy). I was engrossed and didn’t notice that Teddy had walked up to me. When I finally noticed him staring at my bad drawings, hissing through his tubes, it was too late.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  I thought the “You think this is funny, like this is some fucking game?” lecture was coming. I exhaled like a guilty school kid and said, “Art?”

  He made a desperate sound like a small cough, but not one of his emphysemic ones. It got a little louder. He was laughing. I’d never heard him laugh. I don’t think anyone in that room had. He took the drawings out of my hands and held them up for everyone to see. They laughed too. We followed their lead. Rudy opened beers and handed them out. Timmy started telling stupid jokes and Teddy thumbtacked my art to the wall. We all felt good, we all felt like human beings. I realized that these guys weren’t all bad—and was reminded that I wasn’t all good.