Despite all the blood, sweat and tears, not to mention the sheer amount of time that went into obtaining them, the Pagans used to joke that their patches might just was well be attached with Velcro.
While a prospect is constantly ordered around or looking to anticipate what he might be asked to do next, full members are able to make their own plans, so long as they stick to the obligations of their particular club. One of these will be to attend all the mandatory runs for the particular club, usually around six per year. Another is to attend church where all the business of the chapter is discussed and voted on.
For the majority of clubs, church meetings last anywhere between one and three hours depending on how much club business needs to be discussed and how long it takes everyone to settle down. Drinking during meetings is allowed, though it is frowned on to be drunk or stoned while they were still in session. The proceedings are highly formal – motions are introduced and seconded, votes are taken for and against, and the president often has a gavel. Heated arguments often erupt and the debates can rage on for hours. The philosophy is a simple one: everyone gets their say but not necessarily their way.
Although the president and other officers are technically in charge, absolutely everything is decided by a vote. In clubs like the Pagans with just one chapter, this would be straightforward. For clubs with lots of chapters spread across a wider area, individual chapters have their votes weighted according to the number of members they have. This use of proportional representation ensures that the decision of the large chapters doesn’t sweep the smaller ones along.
It was during a church meeting that the Pagans first decided to make full use of the lessons that had been learned from the Scorpio. Although a few members dealt drugs on a casual basis, this was mostly to ensure that there was plenty to go around at parties and to help them get their own stuff for free. Now a decision was made to formalise the trade and to get everyone involved.
As the members sat around a meeting table, one of the new prospects placed a small bag containing five grams of amphetamine in front of each of them. The terms were simple: the club had obtained the drugs at a bulk discount price. The drugs had a certain street value. Each member had to take the drugs and return a week later with that sum of money.
‘If you want to throw it away, you can throw it away,’ explained the treasurer, ‘if you want to snort the lot yourself or share it with your mates, that’s fine too. If you want to go out on the streets and sell it one gram at a time, no one is going to stop you. The only thing we want is the money.’
A couple of members opened their wallets there and then and handed over the cash. Some gave the drugs back, others planned to use it up themselves. Others had buyers in mind and knew they would have no trouble meeting the cash target.
No one said too much about it after the meeting had ended but it was the beginning of a subtle shift in the way the club operated. Entering the drugs trade was a serious step and also opened up the possibility of making serious cash. The club was still about brotherhood, and still about biking, but now it had become about money as well.
FORLORN ANGELS
As the last of the Pagans started to filter out of prison, bikers from the nearby Wolverhampton chapter of the Hell’s Angels began taking a lot more interest in the club, inviting them to rallies and parties on a regular basis. The Angels would also turn up at the new Pagan clubhouse in Nuneaton, often bringing members of the Windsor and Wessex chapters with them.
It seemed as though, having seen them prove themselves through their battles with the Ratae, the Angels had a new level of respect for the Pagans and were clearly grooming them, checking them out to see if they had what it took to join forces with the bigger club.
Once the Pagans became aware of what was being offered, the future of the club became a hot topic of discussion. Boone could understand the appeal of becoming part of a big international brand, perhaps the most recognised MC on the planet, but there were downsides as well. For one thing, the Pagans would no longer be in control of their own destiny, virtually all decisions about runs and regulations and even which clubs they were at war with would be made by national or international officers with whom the individual members would have little or no contact.
Becoming Angels might also affect their existing relationships with local clubs like the Wolf Outlaws who had already fallen foul of the HA. Long-standing friendships with bikers across the country would come under threat depending on that particular club’s relationship with the Angels. Boone didn’t like the idea of not being able to have anything to do with people he had known for years and years, simply because the patch on his back had changed.
There was also the fact that, while the Pagans were a serious and long-established MC in their own right, the level of commitment demanded by the Hell’s Angels was significant and there was a good chance that some of the existing members would not make the cut.
Boone was further put off the idea after learning that a friend of his, Jake, had been pushed out of the Angels after failing to toe the party line. Jake had been in the club for many years but came a cropper when a new prospect signed up for the chapter. The newcomer had very little money and could not afford to purchase the mandatory Harley Davidson needed to join, but the club was eager to have him in its ranks at any cost. Jake had a nicely customised model which he wanted to sell and the prospect made him a bargain basement offer. Jake refused, partly because the offer was low but also because he didn’t really get on with the guy.
Jake then started getting pressure from senior officers in the chapter to come to some sort of arrangement and finally agreed to sell the bike on generous credit terms that extended the payments over several months. But once the newcomer had handed over his deposit and got his hands on the bike, he refused to make any more payments. By this time the newcomer had become highly popular with the rest of the club members and Jake was told to simply let it go. Instead Jake took back his bike.
Jake argued that he was a businessman, that the bike was worth far more than he was receiving for it and there was no reason why he should not be paid its full worth, but his appeals fell on deaf ears. Over the weeks that followed, Jake was increasingly sidelined and eventually forced to leave the club under a cloud. The prospect eventually obtained a cheap bike from another source and went on to become a full member.
A concern among all the Pagans was that none of them wanted to succumb to the peculiar brand of arrogance they had encountered among some Angels, an attitude that seemed to go hand in hand with membership of such a powerful brand.
What was very clear to the Pagans – now more than thirty strong – was that the bigger a club became, the more difficult it was to control. Rather like a class of schoolchildren, there were always going to be those at the back of the room who didn’t pay attention and messed it up for everyone else.
At the weekly church meetings, after the conclusion of regular business, it would be a member’s turn to decide where the Pagans should go riding the following weekend, unless there was a mandatory run somewhere. It wasn’t a compulsory thing – if a member didn’t have any ideas or didn’t want to make a suggestion he was allowed to pass. The system was just a way of ensuring that everyone in the club got a say in the social activities.
In May it was the turn of a new member named Sweeny to decide where they would all go. He mentioned that he had heard of a disco taking place in a biker-friendly bar in Rushton, Northamptonshire, and that this would make a good destination for a run. The route was quickly agreed and the meeting moved on to other business.
What Sweeny had failed to mention was that he had been to this same pub a couple of weeks earlier and had gotten into a beef with a member of the National Chopper Club, an organisation that shares many MC values without actually being an MC itself.
As the last of the long line of Pagan motorcycles entered the car park of the pub, the exit was immediately blocked off by a couple of vans, which had been waiting inconspicuo
usly on the side. Dozens of cars appeared on the scene and dozens of bikers poured out, all of them wearing NCC patches on their backs and virtually every one of them brandishing a shotgun or other weapon. There were at least one hundred of them and no more than thirty Pagans. They were totally outnumbered and completely outgunned.
One of the Chopper Club stepped forward, tightly grasping a sawn off, one hand by the trigger, the other around the barrel. ‘Now you’re going to get it,’ he hissed. ‘You’ve come here for trouble and now you’re going to get it.’
Caz immediately stepped forward to meet the aggressor, his hands held up in a gesture of surrender. ‘Whoa, hold up. Wait a minute, lads. I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about mate. If we’d come here for trouble, don’t you think we’d have brought some weapons with us?’ Caz turned gently to the left and right, his jacket falling open slightly to show that he was unarmed.
By now the remaining Pagans also had their hands up and one by one they all did the same. ‘You see,’ Caz continued. ‘Nothing. I really don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘He does,’ said the NCC biker, pointing towards the middle of the Pagan pack. All eyes turned to the tall, gangly Sweeny who immediately began babbling. Yes, he’d fallen out with someone from the NCC and no, he hadn’t bothered to mention it, but he hadn’t started it and it was all the other guy’s fault and he was the one who had been threatened and he thought going there with the rest of the club might teach the guy a lesson, and so on.
Caz marched over to Sweeny and began ripping his patches off. When Sweeny tried to resist Switch, the sergeant-at-arms and a couple of others went over to help. ‘Right, fuck off,’ said Caz. ‘Get out of here. You’re not in the club any more.’
Sweeny made himself scarce, knowing he was lucky to get away without a beating.
‘Do you mind putting the fucking guns down now?’ asked Caz.
There were some murmurings among the gunmen but the NCC leader was far from happy. He looked across at some of the others, still shaking his head slowly. ‘Nah, this is some kind of set up.’ One of the officers shrugged: ‘Then why have they just kicked out their own man?’
Gradually, men on both sides began talking to one another. The guns were put away and everyone moved into the pub. Beers started flowing and the situation started to resolve itself. Best of all, neither side had been forced to back down – it was all a genuine misunderstanding. A few of the Pagans wanted to kick up a bit of a stink and hit back at the NCC but Caz overruled them. It wasn’t going to happen. The tensions eventually ebbed away and the two clubs partied until the small hours.
While the Pagans were making nice with the NCC, the Cycle Tramps MC were heading down to Hastings, a resort town on the south coast of England famous for its connection to the Norman Conquests, for a run of their own.
Whenever a club rides in formation they do so in order of seniority. As the Cycle Tramps made their way down south, Bruno ‘Brewer’ Tessaro was at the head of the pack. At forty-two he was a good few years older than most of the club members in the whole of the Midlands area and was seen as a father figure by many. Although the clubs had all clashed and fought at one time or another, Brewer was always the one who would spot trouble before it broke out, take the agitator to one side and try to make peace. Deeply respected, he was one of the key reasons why the Cycle Tramps had become such a big gang in the area.
The club was originally located around Sutton Coldfield, a town in the north east of Birmingham, but soon began recruiting members from all over the city and so based itself there. Originally meetings were held in the back rooms of a number of pubs around Birmingham, places that soon developed a reputation as being the best places to score drugs in the city. They were identified as part of the hippie scene.
It was Brewer, along with his fellow founder Anthony ‘Jake’ Tracey, who had negotiated a difficult peace with the Hell’s Angels in 1986. The bigger club had objected to the fact that the Cycle Tramps’ original colours were red and white, which the Angels had claimed as their own. After many lengthy and occasionally heated discussions, the Tramps agreed to change to red on yellow, thus eliminating the threat of war.
That same year, a club from the Forest of Dean known as the Desperados MC, who had been long-time friends of the gang, became the second chapter of the Cycle Tramps and made them by far the biggest club in the area. By then the gang had become large and wealthy enough to purchase its first clubhouse in Kenelm Road in the Small Heath inner-city area of Birmingham. Within two years they had moved to an even larger property in Albert Road in Stechford, Birmingham.
The club arrived in Hastings and headed to the biker-friendly Carlisle pub. Soon after they had settled in, they were surprised to see another group of bikers, members of the Road Rats, turn up at the same venue. The two clubs had never had much to do with each other and were, if anything, united by their desire to remain independent from the Hell’s Angels. The only issue to be settled was which club could drink more and the members rose to the challenge with glee.
As late afternoon turned to evening and everyone was starting to feel a little worse for wear, one of the youngest members of the London MC, twenty-one-year-old Patrick ‘Baby Rat’ Boyle, began to act up. Brewer could see where it was all going to lead and decided to intervene to prevent any trouble. He walked over to Boyle, put his arm around his shoulder, asked if he could have a word and took him off to a quieter corner of the pub.
‘You do realise what’s going to happen if you carry on the way you’ve been carrying on don’t you? It’s going to cause friction. It’s going to kick off here and people are going to get hurt. But the thing is, that’s not necessary. There’s absolutely no need for it. So why don’t you calm down and relax and everyone here can have a good time.’
Brewer was almost twice Boyle’s age. His plea had come across more like a friendly word from a respected elder than any kind of macho confrontation. For a while at least, it seemed to have the desired effect. Boyle apologised and went out of the pub, ostensibly to get some fresh air. He returned a few moments later, walked up to Brewer from behind, placed the barrel of a Luger pistol against the back of his head and pulled the trigger.
Brewer died instantly. It took a few moments for the other bikers in the pub to realise exactly what had happened but once they did the whole place erupted into a mass brawl. Boyle was lucky not to have been killed on the spot but was arrested soon afterwards.
As always, the bikers themselves said nothing, determined to take their own revenge. It was only because staff and bystanders had seen what had happened that the police were able to charge Boyle at all. When the youngster appeared in court all the members of the Cycle Tramps walked past him and drew their fingers across their throats in the ultimate threatening gesture. Boyle would be convicted of murder the following year. Constantly aware of the threat of retribution he faced, along with the fact that he was not even safe behind bars, Boyle eventually took his own life.
Brewer’s bike was placed in a truck and carried back to Birmingham. It was taken inside the clubhouse and placed in a glass case. It remains there to this day as a shrine to the man without whom the club would never have existed.
The loss hit the other clubs hard as well. Boone had not been hugely close to Brewer but had masses of respect for him and admired his attempts at making peace between rival clubs. In the same way that the Cycle Tramps had been a pillar of support to the Pagans in the days that followed the death of Rabbi, so the Pagans returned the favour, helping the Cycle Tramps deal with issues of security and fears of further Road Rat attacks, allowing them to focus on dealing with the funeral arrangements.
If the death of its co-founder was hard for the Cycle Tramps to handle, what came next was even worse. First there was the threat of further attacks from the Road Rats. Although they were the ones who had been responsible, there was always a chance that they would attack again in an attempt to damage the Tramps further still.
Bu
t the biggest threat was much closer to home. The Hell’s Angels, for so long tolerant of the Birmingham gang, saw Brewer’s death as a sign of weakness and used the murder as an excuse to begin, over the course of the following year, intimidating the club into shutting down.
During the start of the summer, the Wolverhampton chapter of the Hell’s Angels took on a new group of prospects, many of them a little on the young side who brought with them a significant amount of attitude. As the MCs began to hit the big biker festivals of the year, the Angel prospects developed a reputation for throwing their weight around.
When it came to the Rock and Blues Custom Show (a festival in Derby organised by the Road Tramps MC), one of the new Angels, Scooter, got into an increasingly heated argument with the Pagans’ prospect Lee and began racially abusing him. Lee was eager to get busy with the Angel but under normal MC rules the minute the pair started to fight, all the other club members would have to join in. As a prospect, Lee knew he was the one who had to face the consequences so he held back.
To avoid the prospect of an all-out brawl, Scooter, who fancied himself as a bit of an expert bare-knuckle fighter, loudly announced that he and the Pagan would fight one-on-one and that no one else from either club should join in.
Lee happily agreed and the Angels and Pagans formed a circle around the two men as they began to square off against one another. Scooter threw a hard right which Lee easily ducked. His return blow put the Angel flat on his back and he then knelt over his opponent, pinning his arms to the ground, landing punch after furious punch on his unprotected head. The Pagans admired their man’s fighting skills and the Angels could only watch as Scooter’s face was reduced to a bloody, bruised pulp.
Dragging their fallen members away, the Angels regrouped and returned to make a show of force. This soon turned into a mini-brawl with Lee and a few other members of the Pagans, from which the Hell’s Angels again came off worse. The losers left the festival, furious with the Pagans for having embarrassed them and furious with the Road Tramps who, they felt, had let them down by not having sufficient security on hand.
Outlaws: Inside the Violent World of Biker Gangs Page 9
