by Jay Dobyns
The week after Vegas I was busy on all fronts. We went on two runs, did an intimidation of the Americans MC with Joby, set up a large guns-and-explosives deal with Phil from Vegas, and bought a scoped Browning rifle from Joby and some drugs and a pistol from Rudy. We ran up and down the state, from Mesa to Skull Valley to Bullhead to Tucson and back. In Bullhead, Smitty was still worried about getting the Mohave Valley charter started up, but, on the plus side, he said he’d been keeping tabs on us and that we were going to be “rock stars.”
Damn right.
As we ran around, my mind constantly spun with the specifics of setting up the Mongol murder. Shawn Wood, the task force agent most game with the plan, was in charge of arranging times and places, scouting locations, doing legwork. I told him I planned to plant the seed on the twenty-first, when we’d be doing prospecting duties at a run in Williams, Arizona.
He said, “Good, let’s get this thing done.”
THE WILLIAMS RUN was easy. We had prospecting duties, but they were low-stress. JJ and Pops sold T-shirts in the booth, and I wandered around with Bobby, acting as his bodyguard.
We came across a group of bikers who called themselves the Wild Pigs. One of their guys walked up to us, his hand extended to Bobby. He wore a big shit-eating smile. He said, “Hey, pleasure to meet you.”
Bobby raised his sunglasses and looked at him intently. He did not offer his hand in return. “Get fucked.”
“Hey, I—”
“You heard me, fuck off. Can you believe these cocksuckers, Bird?” I didn’t lie—I said no, I couldn’t. The Wild Pigs were cops, guys with badges who paraded around on weekends like a One Percenter club. In my mind, as in Bobby’s, they were a fucking abomination.
The guy took his hand back and started to turn when Bobby said, “Wait. I gotta tell you something—you can’t have it both ways, asshole. You can’t pretend to look and act like us until the shit gets nasty and then pull a badge and gun and sit us down on the side of the road. Fuck you. Pick a side.” He turned away in disgust and flipped the Wild Pig off. I followed him. Bobby couldn’t have been more right. It was one thing to be undercover. It was another to be flying two flags at once.
We wandered back to our section—Skull Valley was there, along with a lot of Nomads—and hung around. Having returned to the safety of Hells Angels territory, I was able to leave Bobby to talk with Joby.
I’d decided Joby would be the point Angel for the murder. If I’d asked Teddy or Bobby, they would have wanted to think it over for weeks. I didn’t have weeks. Joby, on the other hand, was like an old piece of leather, a tough guy who wouldn’t think twice about sanctioning the death of a rival. I knew I could count on him.
He was talking with JJ and Pops as I came up to him. I pulled him aside and told him something had been eating at me. I’d heard things about a Mongol in Mexico who was talking shit and not paying a price. I told him I wanted to do something about it, but I wanted his advice. He asked for details—a name, a charter, a location. I told him I thought I could nail down his location, but I didn’t know his name or even what he looked like, all I’d been told was that he was being a real dick, mocking us all over Laughlin, shitting on the Hells Angels in a place where no one could make him shut up. I said he was getting free shots at us. Joby looked from side to side and clenched his jaw. He said, “You did right coming to me. Find out more. We’ll posse up and go smoke that motherfucker.”
I said, “OK. Good. That’s what I thought.”
I LET JOBY simmer for a couple days. I went to Phoenix and hung out with Danza on the twenty-third. I told him I’d be going hunting soon. He said, “Man, I wish so fucking bad I could come with you. Half these guys don’t have the balls to do what you’re doing—not even half. They want to be accountants and old men, like Sonny wants a warm glass of milk every night before he hits the sack at ten-thirty. Half the time I don’t know why I signed up for this bullshit, Bird. We’re the Hells Angels, we should be partying all the time, naked chicks everywhere, drugs everywhere, like no fucking bullshit, you know?”
I knew where he was coming from. We had a good case, but if the Angels hadn’t been so cautious we would’ve had a hell of a lot better case. I told Danza I wished he could come to Mexico too, but that with Timmy and Pops I had my bases covered. “Still,” he said, “I’d love to see that motherfucking bitch when you pop ’em. You should do it by stabbing him in the head.” He paused, dreaming. “But don’t forget to fuck him in the ass a little before you kill him. You know, let ’em know what you are.” I told him he’d have no doubt who was doing it to him. He said good luck and when we parted he gave me a big hug. He called me his real fucking brother. Again, I was perversely touched. I knew Danza would probably be going back to jail because of me, and society would certainly benefit, but a small part of me wished he weren’t. I knew that if circumstances had been different—if we’d been in a foxhole together or had to parachute out of an airplane over enemy territory—Danza was a guy I’d want at my side.
On the twenty-fourth I called Joby at Skull Valley to make sure Teddy or Bobby wasn’t there. He said, “The boys are down at the Pines and I’m holding down the fort.”
“If it’s OK, I’d like to come over and talk about that guy I mentioned the other day.”
He seethed, “Yeah. Let’s do that. Come on over.”
The place was dead. Joby lounged in a wooden office chair, his cowboy-booted heels kicked up on a stool. He played with a Buck knife, stabbing it into the arm of the chair. When he spoke, his voice was unusually eager and twangy, like he’d just spent a month in the desert and hadn’t yet seen a naked woman. He said, “Bird.”
“Joby. I got news.”
“Tell me.” He brought down his feet and sheathed the knife with a metallic whisper.
“Pops went down two days ago. He’s trailing him until we get there.”
“Good. Tell him to wait.”
“I will. Can we do it?”
“Yeah.”
“We can kill this motherfucker?”
“Yeah. Fuck yeah. The guys know, and they’re down too.”
“Good. Joby, I wanna be clear about something. We do this and prove we did it, we want our patches.”
“Bird, you’re my brother, I don’t give a shit if you’re a prospect, you’re my brother to the fullest. Don’t worry. I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you get yours quick.”
“Good. There’s one more thing.”
“What?”
“You got a scratched piece? Something without a record?”
He put his chin in his hand and rubbed it. This was a stretch. I’d just gotten him to approve a murder, and now I—a fucking gun dealer—was asking if he had a throwaway gun. Acrid, nasty stuff welled up in my throat. I lit a cigarette to choke it down.
Finally he said, “I don’t know. I think so. Hold on.”
He disappeared into a side room. I unsnapped one of my Glocks and pulled it out half an inch, just in case. As was the custom in those days, I had no backup. Slats wouldn’t have supported me anyway, not with what I was up to. Joby could’ve come out and shotgunned me down and no one would’ve known for days.
Joby emerged from the room checking the action of a small, pigeon-gray pistol. He said, “This’ll do it, but you gotta get close.”
“Don’t worry. That’s the idea.”
“It’s still got a number, but it’s got no papers. You do this thing, bring it back so we can get rid of it good.”
He handed me the pistol, I checked the safety and stuck it in my back pocket. I said I had to go, that I’d be in touch, and that I’d be back in a few days.
He grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me close, hugging me tight, slapping my back hard. He pushed me back, looked into my eyes, and said, “I want you to come home. All of you.”
“Don’t worry, bro, we will. We will.”
37
. . .
JUNE 25, 2003
WE WENT INTO the desert, and we
took care of business.
38
HATE AND MONEY
JUNE 26 AND 27, 2003
I SAT IN our trailer, chain-smoking. Timmy stood by the door breathing calmly. How he managed to stay calm throughout all our months of strife is still beyond me.
Pops was no longer with us. We’d gone and done the thing and called the boys to a meeting. JJ had spoken to Bobby several times, pretending to be distraught and clueless. We’d told them we’d taken care of business but that Pops was gone. He wasn’t coming back. They weren’t happy about that.
I kept repeating to myself, It’ll work, it’ll work, it’ll work. In those tense, waiting moments I became convinced that I was overreaching, that I was diving out of bounds like I had so many years back in college to catch an uncatchable football, only to land in a patch of cacti. I was afraid of unfathomable outcomes while simultaneously certain I’d reach my goal—I’d become a Hells Angel. It had been a strange and terrible saga.
So we waited. Time became glacial: It moved for no living thing.
I fingered one of my Glocks. I thought, Yep, they’re gonna kill me. I’m dead. I thought of the last time I’d felt that way, when Bad Bob had maneuvered me onto the corner of that restaurant’s porch. This would be it for sure. It would all be over. I’d beaten Slats to the finish line, I’d sold the wares before he could close the shop, but maybe it didn’t matter. I didn’t know how the Skull Valley boys would react. Having seen what we’d done for them, would Joby and Teddy and Bobby suddenly realize they were accomplices to a murder they didn’t want or need? Would they think they’d given us too much line and now we had to be pulled in? Or would they patch us on the spot, make us members from the word go? Those were the only two real options. They couldn’t string us along anymore, I wouldn’t let them.
My phone rang. I muted the ringer. Gwen had been leaving messages all day. I didn’t want to call her back. I took a deep breath, mashed out a down-to-the-filter cigarette, and lit another. I decided to accept my fate. That night, Jay Dobyns would die—if not literally, then at least figuratively. If I became a Hells Angel, even an undercover version of a Hells Angel, then my life as Jay Dobyns would have to end. My marriage would be effectively over; my kids, whom I’d loved more than anything less than a year ago, would be further deprived of their father as I dove deeper and deeper into the bikers’ world. As I sat in the trailer waiting for Teddy and the boys, my only measure of personal success was Black Biscuit. I was willing to lose everything else.
I released and engaged the slide on one of my pistols. Click, click. Repeat. Click, click. Repeat.
Timmy asked, “You remember that scene in The Untouchables, when they’re waiting to ambush Capone’s guys on that Canadian bridge, and Connery says to Garcia, ‘You checked your weapon, now leave it be’?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you checked your weapon, Jay.”
“All right.” I put the gun down and reached into a pocket and drew out one of my Jackrocks. Timmy continued to watch me. He asked if I’d spoken to Jack lately.
“No.”
Timmy said, “Hmmm. My kids are doing good.”
“Good. Sorry I never ask.”
“It’s all right. We’ve been pretty busy.”
“We have, haven’t we?”
“Yeah.”
I looked at the rock, turning it over in my hand. “It’s funny. Months ago Jack told me something I never got until just now. This was like February or March, before we really started getting in with the guys.” I paused to light another cigarette. “Anyway, I’m leaving the house, he runs out to give me another rock. I’ve got hundreds at that point, so I don’t think about it too much. He wanted to talk, to keep me from leaving. I told him I didn’t have time. So he gives me the rock and I say thanks and he asks if I know why he gives them to me. I say because he loves me, or he wants to show me how much he loves me, something like that. He shakes his head. Says, ‘No, Dad, that’s not why. I give them to you to help keep you safe.’ I ask, ‘So they’re for good luck, then?’ He shakes his head again, says, ‘No. They’re for whenever you get in trouble or are scared and you need help or something, you can touch one and know that I’m there with you.’”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, no shit. I was too distracted to really get it then. In my mind I chalked it up to the rocks being for good luck, it was easier that way. But now, waiting for these guys, I finally get what he meant. He meant he could make me stronger, even save my life—not the rocks, but Jack himself.”
“You miss him, huh?”
I thought about that for a second. I looked at Timmy and said, calling him by his real name, “Billy, I don’t even know anymore.” I should have cried, but I was all dried up. It was too much for me to think about.
I put the rock away; I put my eight-year-old son, mature enough to come up with such an idea, back into my pocket. I hated myself for making him think that way.
I was Bird, and hate was part of my MO.
I released the slide on my gun and racked a bullet into the chamber. I decided that if it came to it, I’d be ready. I’d flipped back. No more thinking.
I was Bird, and Bird was always ready.
Timmy said, “We’re gonna be fine, you know.”
“Maybe, but these guys don’t owe us shit, dude. When they see what we’re showing them, they might bug out.”
Timmy walked to the desk and put his hands on it. He leaned in and said, “No way, Jay. I already said it—we’re easy like Sunday morning.”
“You said it. Please don’t sing it again.”
He chuckled. “Don’t worry.”
“Seriously, though. What if Teddy loses his shit?”
Timmy leaned back. “Forget Teddy. You and me are ten times the Hells Angel he is and he knows it. Pops too. Shit, I’ve never even seen Teddy ride a bike!”
He had a point. I took a deep drag off my cigarette and said, “OK. But still, keep tight tonight. Don’t let anyone stand behind you.”
He nodded, straightened up, and patted his chest, which was where he kept his gun.
We waited some more.
My cell vibrated, reminding me of my messages. I decided to listen to them.
It’s Gwen. Your wife. Listen, the sprinkler system is broken and I need you to either come fix it or take care of it. I got my hands full with the kids. Give me a call soon. Um, that’s it I guess. We miss you. Jack especially. Bye.
Beep.
It’s Gwen again. Jack got in a fight at school yesterday and since you’re his dad I thought you should know about it. Can you please call us?
Beep.
It’s me. Are you alive? For most wives I know this is a rhetorical question, but in our case … Please call.
Beep.
You’re being a real jerk, Jay. I called Joe so I know you’re still breathing. Jack’s fight was about him standing up for a mentally retarded girl with glasses. So in spite of the fact that his father is pretending to be a criminal, you must have done something right. The sprinkler is still busted. The lawn is going to die. It’s on you. Don’t bother calling.
Beep.
I deleted them all.
Suddenly Timmy turned and said, “They’re coming.”
I turned my phone off and stuffed it into a pocket. I stuck the gun under my leg and lit another cigarette.
Timmy coughed quietly into one of his fists. The calm bastard.
I heard two cars and a bike. The bike, coughing, fired down. The doors of the cars slammed shut. Footsteps in the gravel. Knock, knock, knock. Timmy opened the door and stepped aside.
I didn’t get up.
Teddy waddled in first, his oxygen tank in tow. He had an awkward time moving up the trailer’s narrow steps and getting through the small door. His eyes were serious-looking. He hugged Timmy and noisily kissed him on both cheeks.
Rudy came in second. His face was red and his eyes were swollen. He’d been crying—he’d really loved Pops. He hugged Timmy and he
ld on to his sleeves a little too long. The guy was contradiction incarnate: an HA bruiser reduced to tears.
Bobby was next. Still wearing his shades. He hugged Timmy and kissed him on both cheeks. Next he stepped over to me and I got up, careful not to let the gun under my leg fall to the floor. My body obscured it. He gave me a big hug too.
Joby came in last. He hugged and kissed Timmy and then he hugged me. I sat back down.
We were six men—most of us quite large—in the living room of a single-wide trailer. The guys smelled of beer. I smelled of cigarettes. Teddy smelled of Devon, who smelled of cheap concealing powder and pussy. Put together, we smelled like the Pinion Pines strip club.
Teddy sat down and lit a long, thin, brown cigarette. Timmy closed the door and stood behind everyone. Rudy vigorously rubbed the top of his shaved head, while Bobby rocked back and forth on his heels. Joby was stock-still.
Teddy took a drag and exhaled through his nose. Smoke filled and surrounded the oxygen tubes that jutted from his nostrils. He said nothing, but he nodded curtly, signifying that he wanted to know what was up.
I couldn’t believe it, but they were scared. I felt a flash of euphoria. Adrenaline and the threat of death concealed it.
I picked up the FedEx box from the floor and placed it on the table between Teddy and me. Joby leaned in and picked it up.
I told them Pops’s story, of how he was eager to prove himself and desperate to erase all the ball-busting he’d endured. I told them how he’d tried to take care of the Mongol on his own before we got down there, of how he got shot in a Mexican cantina. I told them how we buried his body with a bottle of Jack and a handwritten note that read, Pops, AFFA, Angels Forever, Forever Angels, we love you. I told them how Timmy and I waited for the Mongol bitch to return to his crappy motel room the next night. I told them how we took care of business: how we whispered the old Solo motto, Jesus Hates a Pussy, and then knocked on the guy’s door; how he opened it, fully dressed, Mongol cut and all, demanding, “Qué fucking es?”; how we beat him unconscious with my bat; how we broke his arms and knees like chicken wings; how we taped him up; how we gagged him with a pair of dirty underwear; how we wrapped him in the motel room rug and threw him in the trunk of the Cougar. I told how we drove and drove and drove and opened the trunk and dragged him to a dried wash in the desert. I said we told him the Hells Angels were killing him. I told them how Timmy leaned in and did the honors; how we stole the corpse’s cut and drove home, full of rage, revenge, and redemption. I told them how we disposed of the gun, piece by piece, in the Mexican Sonoran desert.
