Deep Cover (19 page)

"Sure.
Sure, Lou." Sam looked at me and rolled his eyes.

I
stood up. "Look," I said. "It was nice meeting you folks, but I don't have time to chat. I gotta get this stuff over to Paterson and catch a flight back to L.A. tomorrow morning." I turned to grab the bags and froze at the sound of a knock at the door. I looked at Sam and Louise, as if to ask them if they were expecting anyone. They both looked surprised, and shook their heads no.
Better
answer
, I thought. A second knock and I said, "Yeah, who is it?"

A
young, male voice replied. "Excuse me, sir. I'm sorry to bother you. This is the New Jersey Highway Patrol. Would you please open the door?"

Sam
reached under the cushion of the couch and pulled out a .44 Magnum revolver. Louise, as fat as she was, reached quickly into the compartment above her and produced a MAC-10 machine pistol.

"Just
a minute," I said to the cop outside. Then I whispered intensely to Sam and Louise, "Put those away, for crissake! Let's just see what he wants." To my incredible relief, they complied. The cop was getting impatient.

"I'm
afraid I must insist, sir, that you open—"

"Yes,
officer. What can I do for you?" I said as I opened the door.

"Just
like to see your license and registration please."

I
turned to Sam. "Uncle Sam?"
I
hope
to
God
that
Sam
is
the
name
on
his
license
and
registration
, I thought.

"Sure
thing, my boy." Sam huffed and puffed and finally managed to get his wallet out from his back pocket. He handed me the license and registration and I handed them to the young trooper. I could see Sam reaching under the cushion, ready to draw his gun. I was standing between him and the trooper, so his movements were concealed.

"Everything
in order?" I asked.
I
can't
let
this
happen
,
I
thought.
I
can't
let
this
fat
piece
of
shit
kill
this
cop
.
Come
on
,
kid
! I was screaming at him in my mind to get the hell out of here.
Just
hand
back
the
papers
and
get
back
in
your
patrol
car
,
because
I
may
not
be
able
to
stop
these
slobs
from
blowing
your
head
off
.
I
must have been holding my breath without realizing it, because I let out a huge sigh of relief when the trooper handed me back Sam's papers and said, "Okay, sorry to bother you. Have a good night."

I
said my good-byes to Sam and Louise and, after I was sure the trooper was long gone, loaded the two bags in the trunk of the car. I looked around, trying to make the surveillance team. There was a van parked about thirty yards away. It was hard to tell. If they were there, they were good. Two-tons-of-fun in the RV certainly wouldn't be able to make them.

I arrived at the Paterson clubhouse a little after two A.M. Two prospects met me curbside and took the suitcases. I returned to the airport, and after returning the car and taking a nap at the terminal building, I was back on the plane to California at six A.M. I figured that these drop-off points were located away from the clubhouse, because an RV would look suspicious coming into a run-down or low-income neighborhood. Also, if the clubhouse was too hot at the time of a drop-off, they could always bring the stuff to one of their associate's or woman's houses.

When
I arrived back in California, Counsel was waiting at the gate. We hugged and kissed each other hello. People looked at us in startled disgust. To The Henchmen, kissing a brother on the lips was as common as shaking hands. It was also a hell of a lot of fun when it freaked out the citizenry.

"How
did it go, Doc?" asked Counsel

"Smooth.
Baby-ass smooth," I said. I didn't think it necessary to tell Counsel about the trooper. "Sam and his old lady are a trip."

"Ain't
it the truth, brother." We walked outside and into Counsel's car. A skycap had kept an eye on it while Counsel went inside. He tipped him a ten.

"Hey,
Doc," said Counsel, after about ten minutes of driving without much conversation. "Guess what?"

I
shrugged.

"We're
gonna be in the fuckin' movies."

Oh
shit
,
I
thought. I was in deeper than any agent had ever been in the history of undercover work, and these guys were about to go Hollywood.

"Counsel,"
I said, "that's great! Just great... By the way, man, I could use a drink."

Chapter
17

"It's eight-thirty, brothers," said Whitey, as he raised his gun above his head. "Let's get ready to take care of business."

With
those words the bikers dispersed throughout the clubhouse. Each carried either an Uzi or MAC-10 machine gun. Bones, Stoned Eddie, and three of the Philadelphia Henchmen took positions in the back room. The back door was steel-reinforced and the three windows were bricked up, with a gun port in the center of each one. Whitey, Dirty Dan, and Zorro took their positions in front.

"See
anything?" asked Zorro.

"Not
a fuckin' thing," answered Dirty Dan. Dirty Dan was in position by the middle window, Zorro on his right, Whitey to his left. All three bikers had their gun barrels pointed through the steel openings. The fortification of the front of the clubhouse was almost identical to that of the rear. The only difference was a gun port built into the front door. From the outside, it looked like an oversized mail slot.

The
rest of the bikers went to the rooftop. Fat Tom, The Philadelphia sergeant-at-arms, and his team set up positions on Mrs. Montali's side of the roof. Grease and his team watched the stairwell on top of Pablo Ramirez's house. They expected a lot of the action to take place on the rooftops, as Toritelli's men tried to make their way from the attached buildings.

The
moving van arrived just before nine. The driver and helper would remain in the cab until the hit was complete. They wore uniforms with the name
FlagCo
Movers
embroidered on the back. Using this Toritelli-owned business as a front, the hit squad could be easily transported to and from the target.

Few
pedestrians were present as Calvecci's team scurried up the street toward the clubhouse. A man walking his dog and a woman listening to the radio on her porch quickly vanished at the sight of the armed men racing up the street. As was usual with the residents of this impoverished neighborhood, these two would not involve themselves in whatever calamity was about to take place by reporting what they had seen to the police.

Calvecci's
team split up and piled into the two homes on either side of the clubhouse. The front doors had been left unlocked, courtesy of Calvecci's break-in men. They moved rapidly toward the roof. Ricky Moose's team cut through the fence behind the clubhouse. Ricky held back the mesh as the six men ducked through and entered the yard. Famantia's men took positions behind parked cars, aiming their guns at the front door and windows.

"We're
through the fence," whispered Ricky Moose into his walkie-talkie. "Can you read me, Joey?"

"Yeah,
I hear ya…." Famantia turned the dial, increasing the volume slightly on his walkie-talkie. "As soon as Mario's team is on the roof, you go in. Wait for his signal."

"Okay,
Joey. I don't see any lights on inside. Are you sure there here?" That question had barely been asked when a bullet ripped through Ricky Moose's skull. He fell to the ground face-forward, the walkie-talkie still in his hand. His team ran for cover while The Henchmen sprayed the yard with bullets. "What the fuck is that? Who's shooting? Moose... Moose, what the fuck?" came Famantia's voice over the receiver. There was no one in the yard still alive to hear it.

"Boss,"
Mario Calvecci's voice came over the airwaves. "We're near the stairwells to the roof. I hear shooting. What's happening?"

In
a moment of fearful clarity, Famantia knew that his worst nightmare had come to life.
Oh
shit
, he thought. He quickly turned his head, scanning the street in front of the clubhouse.
There's
no
fucking
motorcycles
parked
outside
.
There's
always
fucking
motorcycles
outside
.
They
know
we're
coming
. In a moment of panic, he stood up from behind the parked car.

"Mario,
listen. Pull ba—" Famantia dropped the hand radio, clutched his chest, and fell. The rest of the team moved quickly toward the house in an all-out assault. Henchmen gunfire picked them off like ducks in a shooting gallery. Their bullets never entered the building. Cemented windows and steel-reinforced walls neutralized the attack.

Fat
Tom motioned for everyone on the roof to stay low. The bikers were lined up on each side, their rifles pointed at the stairwell doors. The shooting at the front and rear of the building had subsided. Silence hung eerily for a moment, while the bikers waited for the anticipated attack. The silence was broken by the crashing sound of the stairwell doors being forced open. The hit squad began to emerge. The bikers waited... waited... then opened fire.

Within
seconds, six of the attackers' bodies lay on the Ramirez roof, five on Mrs. Montali's. The rest, about fifteen men, retreated down the stairwells. Fat Tom jumped over the two-foot wall and scurried to the open door on Montali's roof. Two 'more bikers followed him. They lined up cautiously alongside the doorway. Four Henchmen did the same on the Ramirez roof.

Fat
Tom took a quick look into the stairwell. He jerked back, to avoid a sudden outburst of bullets. He put his forefinger to his lips, signaling the rest of the bikers to be quiet. He then pointed to Grease, in position on Ramirez's roof, motioning for him to do the same. No shots were fired at Grease. The hit squad appeared to have retreated on the Ramirez side, while at least one gunman remained in the stairwell over Mrs. Montali's.

Fat
Tom moved his head into the line of fire again. More shots into the air. Again he moved in and out. Again the shots. He pointed toward the floor and mouthed the word "lower" to his associate on the other side of the doorway. George "Goober" Hodge, also a member of the Philadelphia chapter, understood. He dropped to the floor and rolled out in front of the doorway. He fired, hitting his target dead-center. The force of the bullets from the MAC-10 knocked the man to the wall. His blood stained the white brick as his lifeless body slowly slid down to rest in a sitting position, eyes staring straight ahead at nothing.

Grease
was starting to make his move over on the Ramirez side. "They retreated into the house," he said to his group. "Five of you"—he quickly pointed out five of the bikers—"go down through the clubhouse and come at them through the front doors. Tell the brothers in the rear of the clubhouse to watch for anyone trying to get out. We'll run them down through the top and squash the motherfuckers in the middle." Grease nodded toward Fat Tom, as the defenders now became the attackers. The bikers went down the stairwells shooting at anything that moved. They had killed six more before they'd even reached the second floor.

On
the second floor of Montali's house, Fat Tom cautiously approached the door to the bathroom. He could hear a slight scuffle as he neared the room. He slowly opened the door, to find Mrs. Montali lying facedown on the tile floor. She was gagged, and her arms and legs were bound. He sat her up and took off her gag. "Stay here. I'll be back when it's over." Her eyes widened suddenly, as Fat Tom turned and fired his weapon at the figure in the doorway. Chalk up another one for The Henchmen.

Near
the stairway to the first floor of the Ramirez house, Grease and his team encountered two men preparing a charge of dynamite against the wall. A short, deadly burst from his MAC-10 interrupted their efforts. The bikers sandwiched the remaining men between the first and second floors. Bodies lay everywhere. In Mrs. Montali's house a similar scenario was being played out.

The
victorious Henchmen returned to the clubhouse. It had the air of a pro football locker room after a Superbowl win. Players giving each other the high-five, popping beer cans open, and reliving the successful plays and exciting moments of the game. Or maybe of a fifteenth-century castle—triumphant knights drinking ale, comparing battle scars, patting each other on the back, and embracing in brotherly solidarity.

Dirty
Dan kissed and embraced Whitey. The two chapter presidents were proud of their clubs. "Anybody hurt?" asked Dirty Dan.

"Stoned
Eddie caught one in the leg, and I think Grease's arm is broken. Other than that, just minor shit." Whitey looked at his watch. Nine thirty-five. "Hey, brothers!" he shouted. "Who was on cleanup last party?"

***

It was slow that night at Mike's. Counsel and I had been drinking together for about two hours before Iron Man and Savage joined us. Most of the other members of the Los Angeles chapter were either out with their old ladies or home with their families. Some were at the clubhouse. Two bikers from one of the small local clubs were in the back room, playing pool with a couple of women who sometimes came into Mike's looking for action.

"You
look pretty good for a guy who was recently shot," I said to Savage. His arm was no longer in the sling, but his shoulder and rib cage were still tightly wrapped.

"I
heal quick, Doc. A Henchman's got to. Hey, I'm sorry I missed your party. After Popeye's funeral I had to take care of some business up north." I found out later that Savage was at the Glendale chapter picking up cash. All chapters give a percentage of profits to the mother chapter for the national coffer. These funds are used to buy real estate, finance expansions, and pay expensive lawyers to keep The Henchmen on the street and out of jail. From what I could gather so far, in addition to dealing in drugs and prostitution, each chapter had their own little specialty. Glendale's was loan-sharking, Philadelphia's, murder for hire. The Atlanta chapter made thousands of dollars planting bombs for various white supremacist groups in the South. Savage himself trained most of the Atlanta members in the use of plastic explosives and pipe bombs.

"You
missed a good one, brother," I said. "We really partied hard." I slapped Iron Man a high-five. Under the play-acting, I was still wrestling with feelings of guilt. I had never been unfaithful to Amy, and I kept searching for reasons to justify my actions. It certainly had been against my will. My life would have been lost had I refused. Both reasons were valid. Neither gave me the vindication I was after.

"So
what's up, Counsel? I got your message to meet you here," asked Savage.

"We
got a little situation," Counsel said quietly. We had to move closer to hear him. "It's the San Pagano charter. I'm gonna revoke it."

"Revoke
it?" I said, surprised.

"Yeah,
they really fucked up this time. They bagged a couple of cunts after the Bobby Jones concert. Turns out they did a real number on 'em. Those stupid fucks have the heat on us now. Helmsford called me and said the pressure on the cops is coming all the way from the Governor's office."

"We
fucking
own
Helmsford, that slimy pig," interrupted Savage. He winced slightly from the pain of tensing his wounded body. I could tell his wounds still hurt like hell. Most people who get shot up like that spend a week or two in the hospital. Savage had spent all of three hours in the doctor's office. I couldn't help but admire something about this psychopath. The look in his eyes would have scared Charlie Manson, but his bravery and loyalty to his brothers were unshakable.

"Helmsford
says he can't do nothing about it." Counsel was irritated. He was acting like a disappointed parent. A mixture of anger and hurt over the actions of an offspring he couldn't control.

Iron
Man sat quietly, arms folded, occasionally stroking his unkempt beard. Counsel finished his drink, then continued, "They're too wild. They do too much of their own crank and fuck too much with the citizens. I fuckin' warned them a million times."

We
were all silent for a moment. I made a mental note of Helmsford's name. Again things were falling into place. Having a cop on the payroll made them virtually impervious to any surprise searches. If the cops were planning a raid on the clubhouse, Helms-ford could warn them hours before. I thought to myself,
Shit
,
if
every
member
of
law
enforcement
was
honest
there
would
be a hell of a lot less
crime
.
How
many
other
cops
,
judges
,
or
other
officials
does
this
club
control
around
the
country
?

"So
what's next?" I asked.

"Next
Friday. Six of us go down," Counsel immediately responded. "The four of us, Monk, and Dog. We'll go there during their regular meeting, pull their patches, and that will be that." He looked around the table. Everyone nodded their agreement. I was reminded of the scene in A
Clockwork
Orange
where Alex and his buddies are sitting around the milk bar, and all the toadies are apprehensively saying "Right, right" to their leader's instructions.