Gods of Mischief (16 page)

“Oh, no?” I said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Not unless you freak out and rip your shirt off or something. You're not gonna do that, are you?”

“Rip my shirt off? No. But I might piss in my pants.”

I opened the passenger's door.

“Remember,” he said as I left the car, “no pressure. Just act natural.”

Natural my ass. I climbed into my truck and drove to the Lady Luck. Before entering I lit a cigarette, took a deep breath, then stepped through the front door.

Swear to Christ, the instant I arrived it felt like every eyeball was on me. I just knew those boys could see and smell that big hunk of metal
under my flannel shirt—the flannel shirt I was wearing on a hot day in Hemet. With a denim cut over it no less.

Within seconds I was sweating like a whore in church.

Big Roy and Iron Mike were in the shop that day, so was Jimbo, the muscle-head who supplied steroids to the chapter, and Ready, the tattoo artist who had recently been patched into the club. I fell into conversation with Iron Mike but don't remember a word we said. I just kept thinking that Vago knew what I was up to, that any second he would push me against the wall and pat me down. Of course, in hindsight, my fears were unfounded. At that point I was still a hang-around, and no club business was being discussed at Big Roy's place. Still, at that moment and in that context, the experience was incredibly nerve-wracking.

After what seemed an eternity, I walked out of the Lady Luck like a man who'd just finished a marathon. Man, you could have taken that flannel shirt and wrung it out right there on the sidewalk. But at least I'd done it. I'd passed my first test going wired.

Now it was time for the real deal.

The morning before the Vagos run to Yucca Valley, Old Joe and I piled into the company truck and headed off to do a job estimate. Along the way I told him about the meeting I was about to have with John Carr at the Hawaiian BBQ in Beaumont.

My friend went quiet, as was usual when this topic came up, and turned his gaze out the window. From the moment he'd found out I was working with the feds, Joe had kept his distance from me. And I understood that. I respected the man's position. But that didn't change the fact that I still wanted him on board. So I asked Joe to come meet Special Agent Carr at the Little Luau.

It was a long moment before he answered me in that easy drawl, slow and thick as molasses.

“You know I'm a nonviolent guy, George,” he began. “I'm no rabble-rouser, and I've got no criminal record. I don't go looking for trouble, but it seems like that's where you're taking me.”

“Hey, man, you know I'd never—”

“Hold on, brother,” Joe interrupted. “Let me finish. I've been thinking about this for a while now. To be honest, I really didn't know whether I was going to stick around. I mean, somebody throws something like that at you, and you're thinking,
Wait a minute. I didn't sign up for this.
Understand what I'm saying?”

“Sure I do.”

Joe's gaze wandered back to the window now. “But you've been more of a brother to me than my own flesh and blood. Every time I've needed help you've been there for me.” He turned back to me. “You're my only true friend, George. You've always stuck by me, so I'm sticking by you. From here on out, whatever happens, happens to the two of us. Okay?”

And that's where we left it. Old Joe and I never spoke of the matter again. From that day forward, my buddy was on board.

Around noon we drove up to Beaumont and found a table in the Little Luau. John Carr wasn't there yet. An hour later he still hadn't shown up.

One thing I quickly learned about working with Special Agent Carr—the man was chronically late. John finally arrived without apology, ordered the beef teriyaki combo, and got down to business. And because Old Joe was at the table, he was the first topic up for discussion.

“George didn't give me much of an option with you,” John said to him. “The cat's out of the bag and there's no putting it back in again, is there?”

“No, sir, I guess not,” Joe replied. “And I understand your concern, Agent Carr. But George knows I'm a man of my word. My father was a minister. He raised me honest. And if I tell you I'll keep your secret, you can count on it.”

That was good enough for my handler. After some meaningless talk, the two shook hands, and Old Joe grabbed the truck keys and headed out to the parking lot to give us some privacy.

“He's a good man. You stick with him,” John said the moment Joe was through the door. “My dad always told me women will come and go in your life, but your true friends will be the ones who are there with you in the end. I think that fits your buddy to a tee.”

My stint as a
working CI was about to begin, and John wanted to give me a crash course on how to survive in a very dangerous business. As the handler, John would be keeping tabs from a distance. But fact of the matter was, as an informant, I was pretty much on my own. When things go wrong for a CI, they can go wrong fast. By the time the cavalry arrives, there's little to do but clean up the mess.

Informants die. That's the nature of the beast. And that's the risk Special Agent Carr wanted me to understand. We left the restaurant and piled into his Ford Expedition. I shouted out the window to Old Joe that we'd be back in a half hour, and off we drove.

“We need hard information, George,” John explained as we headed in the direction of San Bernardino. “And there's no detail too small. I can't stress how important that is. Details are what can make or break a case. Some actionable intelligence we learn tomorrow may connect up to something we get two or three months down the road. It's like a puzzle, and if enough of that puzzle comes together, we've got a chance to get these guys on a RICO.”

The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act was originally intended to prosecute the Mafia, but the government expanded its use in the late 1970s to include outlaw motorcycle gangs. The Vagos were already classified as a criminal gang thanks to California's S.T.E.P. Act, which also slapped convicted outlaws with gang enhancement penalties, effectively doubling a man's sentence.

But under RICO, all of Green Nation could be brought to its knees. If I could gather enough indictable evidence to show a pattern of organized criminal behavior on the part of the Vagos, the leadership could very well be prosecuted and the entire club dismantled.

Problem was, proving a racketeering case in court against an outlaw motorcycle gang was no cinch.

The feds had already tried that gambit in 1979, when they indicted Sonny Barger and members of the Oakland chapter of the Hells Angels. But the prosecution was unable to prove that the Angels had conspired on an organizational level to break the law of the land. More recently, the Los Angeles field division of the ATF had gathered enough evidence against the Mongols Motorcycle Club to shut it down under RICO and have all the club's trademarks confiscated.

But that case was overturned on appeal.

No question RICO was a powerful hammer against organized crime. But it was also powerfully hard to prosecute outlaw motorcycle clubs using that federal statute.

“Here's what I want you to remember, George,” John explained. “It's okay to ask questions, but stay in your comfort zone. Let it come natural. Don't press these guys to talk. If it doesn't feel right, it probably isn't. So just take it slow.”

“Got it,” I said.

We arrived back at the Little Luau to find Joe snoozing in the truck on the other side of the lot. John threw his car into park and turned off the ignition.

“I want you to know I've brought in a task force deputy with the L.A. County Sheriff's Department to work this case with us. An undercover guy. One of the best in the business. He'll be out there with you.”

“How will I know him?”

“You won't. He'll look just like any other outlaw. But he knows who you are, and he'll be watching your back.”

Later I'd meet a few of these undercover lawmen. And John was right. You'd never know they were cops to look at them. They looked like outlaws, rode like outlaws and drank like outlaws . . . and no outlaw was ever the wiser. They were the intel boys. They never came out, they
were always under. They'd shake your hand, hop on their Harleys and ride back to the office to type their reports.

“And I'll be there too,” John continued. “I'm sure you'll see me around. Whatever you do, don't fucking wave to me.”

“How 'bout this?”

I flipped him the middle finger.

John smiled, then quickly grew serious again. “Just remember what we've talked about. Keep things casual. And don't forget about this guy, Daoussis. Somebody with the San Bernardino chapter knows who killed him.”

“I'll do what I can.”

John reached into the backseat and came forward with a wooden box.

“I know how much you were looking forward to that microphone I had you wearing at the Lady Luck.” He smiled. “But I think you'll like this even better.”

It was the recording device that would become my trusted partner for the duration of my time undercover. This wasn't some hunk of metal from those old Mafia movies, with the recorder strapped to the chest. No, sir. This was real high-tech, science-fiction-type stuff. I had audio. I had video. George was beaming to the satellites, baby! I can't get more specific than that; too many agents and informants are still using it in the field. Let's just say that even if the Vagos had known what to look for, they wouldn't have found it.

You know, on second thought—and this is for the Warlocks, Pagans, Outlaws, Mongols, Angels and all you other one percenters out there—we hide that gear up our ass, fellas.

Go fish.

I hopped out of the Expedition and headed for the truck. John called before I'd gone too far.

“Oh, hey, George. One more thing.”

I came back and leaned through the open window.

“I've named the operation. I'm calling it Twenty-Two Green. What do you think?”

I thought that sounded pretty cool. Look out, motherfuckers. I've got your color and I've got your number.

Operation 22 Green. Oh, yeah . . . that's my baby.

T
he Vagos rumbled east on the I-10 through the San Gorgonio Pass, then turned north on the Twentynine Palms highway, passing beyond the mountains and into the brick-red hills of the Mojave. Although I didn't realize it at the time, this was the same track Kilo and Rhino had followed as they'd hauled Dennis “Shorty” Daoussis in the bed of Kilo's pickup, rolled in a carpet and headed for execution.

Hanging with the Vagos was not my idea of keeping good company, but I must admit I enjoyed running with the herd during my time undercover. Man, if you love riding motorcycles like I do, there's nothing like screaming down a highway with a pack of Harleys rolling in tight formation, front tire a foot off the wheel of the man in front, hands high on the bars and the straight pipes clapping like thunder. It's one hell of a head rush.

I would have enjoyed the ride even more had I not been aboard that shit-ass Touring Classic the feds stuck me with. As I shook, rattled and rolled down that desert highway, my machine was throwing off parts like a mutt shedding fleas. There goes the muffler, bye-bye taillight, off went the peg beneath my foot. The poor bastards cruising behind
me were zigging, zagging and cursing as they dodged my flying debris.

But losing that rat bike one piece at a time was not my primary concern as we thundered toward Yucca Valley. Nope. I had much bigger problems—because ol' Crash was running right beside me.

Thing is, when you were barrel-assin' along the open road at ninety miles per hour you really wanted to trust the rider in the saddle next to you. Unfortunately, because we were both prospects, that man was usually Crash . . . and that crazy sonofabitch scared the hell out of me. The entire trip I'd been cheating my wheels ahead of his, because no way did I want to get caught running behind that uncoordinated fuck.

I was just beginning to think I was home free when, sure enough, there went Crash. I veered away sharply as he bounced off the blacktop and his Harley went somersaulting down the road, throwing off pieces of chrome and steel. It was a miracle no one else went down, because I'd witnessed that ugly scene before. I'd watched packs with over two hundred riders suddenly fly all to pieces, men and machines tumbled and tossed like jacks across the freeway. And when something like that happened and the dust settled, it was like bloody carnage across a battlefield.

As we hauled Crash's busted carcass off the pavement, the first word out of his mouth was “pothole.”

Bullshit. There was no fuckin' pothole. That was just Crash doing what Crash always did best.

After the pack dusted itself off, we started north again on the highway. Just as we were approaching Yucca Valley, a shitbox sedan with missing hubcaps appeared ahead, steering close to the road's apron to allow the horde to pass. When it came my turn, I was surprised to see John Carr behind the wheel.

His hand was raised against his chest and he was flipping me the finger.

The pack veered off the highway and started down a long dirt road that plugged straight into our destination—a biker bar out in the middle
of the desert. Several Vagos chapters were there when we arrived, along with riders from the Vietnam Vets and some of the law enforcement clubs. Can't remember for sure which ones, but I believe the Blue Knights were there.

I dismounted the Harley and was about to rest my saddle-sore ass when I heard the words I would come to dread.

“Hey, prospect!”

Some bearded asshole with Loki on his back was pointing toward a Porta Potty standing out among the rocks.

“Climb up on that shit-shed over there and sing us the prospect song!”