Under and Alone (12 page)

High time. Down the hill I went, considerably more slowly this time. When I reached the bottom, I approached Buster. He looked like an army grunt, a baby-faced kid his first night out on the perimeter in Vietnam.

“Buster, bad news,” I said. He stared sheepishly at me like he couldn’t possibly handle any more bad news right now. “Relax, bud. They just want you up the hill.”

Buster pulled his gun out and started to give it to me. “Naw, dude,” I said, “hang on to it. You might need it.” I was just fucking with him, but Buster nodded solemnly. He tucked away the revolver and headed up the hill.

An hour later I saw Buster making his slow retreat back down, looking like he’d been ridden hard and was ready to crack. But it wasn’t anywhere near quitting time. It was time to take my butt back up the hill for another round of abuse. The Mongols still had plenty of partying to do.

I made my way back to the festivities, moving more slowly each time I had to climb that hill. As I reached the party, the first Mongol I walked past was Red Dog. Suddenly, I felt a thud from his fist hitting me in the chest. He grabbed my shirt and pulled me close to him. “I better see you working your ass off, Billy,” he barked.

“You need something, Red Dog?” I asked.

“Yeah. Go get me another beer.”

At around four o’clock Domingo told me to hurry back down the hill. “Billy, go get your car! You’re gonna take me and my new bride home.”

Although my legs were rubbery with fatigue, I made another jog down the hill to my car. Buster looked more nervous than a kitten in a pit-bull arena. But there was no time for conversation with my prospect buddy. I blew by him and jumped into my Mustang. It was a great feeling not having to run back up that goddamn hill. Domingo and his drunken ol’ lady were waiting when I got there. They piled into the car and away we went.

It was only a ten-minute drive back to Domingo’s house. I was already seeing visions of my bed when Domingo turned and said something that hit me like ice water. “Soon as the ol’ lady goes to sleep, we’re headed back to the party.”

I laid down on Domingo’s couch and just waited for him to kick me off so I could take him back to the party. To my relief, I heard a noise that I never thought I’d enjoy so much. Domingo was snoring his ass off. There’d be no more hill climbing for me that night.

A few days later, I got a frantic call from Buster. He wanted to meet me at The Place as soon as I could get there. After calling Ciccone, I jumped on my bike and headed for Tujunga. When I rolled up, Buster was pacing back and forth like a caged tiger.

“Billy, I can’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“I just can’t do it, Billy. They’re going to want me to shoot somebody, and I’m not going to be able to do it. I want out, Billy. Shit. I didn’t know what I was getting into.”

In his near-frantic state, Buster kept asking me what he should do.

“Look, dude, I don’t know. You’re gonna have to run it by Domingo. Just go tell him what you told me.”

He stared at me for a long minute and then pleaded, “Go with me, Billy, please!”

“Okay.”

Buster was scared as hell, and so was I. But he wanted out of the Mongols, and he was going to get out no matter what it cost him.

We got on our bikes and headed for Domingo’s. I honestly didn’t know how he would react to this news. I couldn’t even begin to guess.

We arrived at Domingo’s at around one
P.M.
I knocked on the door several times before I heard our chapter president yelling angrily, “Okay, I’m coming!” When he opened the door, it was obvious we had gotten him out of bed—not a good start. “What’s up, guys?”

Buster didn’t speak. I stared at him impatiently. Domingo stared at him impatiently. Finally, he found the courage he needed. “I can’t do it, Domingo. I want out. I didn’t know what I was getting into.”

Again there was a long silence. Suddenly, Domingo grabbed my shirt, pulling me close to him and choking me. “Does that shit go for you, too, Billy?”

“No, man, I’m hangin’.”

Now Domingo began to vent at Buster. “I brought you in, you fuckin’ bastard! I sponsored you. I looked after you, and this is what I get?”

“I’m sorry, man . . . I’m s-s-sorry.” Buster was stammering and spitting now. He asked Domingo what he could do to make things right. Domingo shook him off, saying it wasn’t going to be that easy, that he’d decide at Church that evening. Then he told us to get the hell out of his house.

When we got back to The Place, we drank a few beers and Buster kept staring at me like a frightened deer, asking me over and over what I thought he should do. I told him that maybe he should pack his bags and leave town tonight. He said he couldn’t do that. His whole family lived in the area, and he was afraid the Mongols would go after them. It was a valid concern. I told him that the only thing he could do was to face the music. He had about three and a half hours before Church to think about the direction his life was going to take. Three and a half torturous hours.

Church was held at Bucket Head’s place in Sunland. I rolled in a few minutes before five, and Buster pulled up in his car shortly thereafter. I stayed outside like a good prospect, talking with Buster, trying to keep him calm.

I told Buster that if the Mongols wanted me to beat him up that I would hit him once and he should go down. He should cover his head and face, and I would kick him in the stomach rather than breaking his nose, loosening his teeth, or giving him a concussion. Buster began to thank me. Somehow orchestrating his beating made us both feel a little better.

At last, Domingo yelled from inside the house for me. “Prospect Billy!” I looked at Buster, then walked inside. Domingo, Rancid, Bucket Head, and Rocky were all sitting around a table. In the center of the table lay a .38-caliber revolver. Domingo thanked me for hanging in with the Mongols, and so did Rocky. Then Domingo floored me with their decision. If Buster wanted out, he would have to play Russian roulette.

“There’s one bullet in the gun,” Domingo said. “He’s gonna put that gun to his head, pull the trigger, and if he doesn’t blow his brains out, then he’s out of the club.” Domingo told me to send Buster in.

As I turned to walk away, I knew I’d have to tell Buster to run. There wasn’t a choice. I couldn’t aid and abet in this poor kid’s Mongol-ordered suicide. But before I could open my mouth to warn Buster, I saw Domingo following me out.

He pointed at Buster and said one word: “In!”

Buster ambled forward like a tethered cow to the slaughterhouse. Domingo held the door and Buster passed through; I watched the door slam shut behind him. I stood with my back to the wall and heard myself praying for Buster. “Oh God—oh Jesus—oh God . . .” I began pacing, waiting to hear a gunshot from inside.

Suddenly, Buster emerged from inside the house. I wanted to hug him, take him back to The Place, drown him in beer. I smiled at Buster but he didn’t look back. He stared straight ahead and walked past. He looked as though he’d just been sitting face-to-face with the Devil himself, gambling over his soul. Without a word he got in his car and drove away. I never saw Buster again.

8

It had been another Mongol all-nighter. I’d watched the sunrise with the SFV Chapter and had just fallen asleep in my UC apartment at around nine
A.M.
An hour later the phone jolted me half back to life. It was Ciccone. “I need you to come in, Bill. The SAC said he’s going to shut down the fucking investigation. We’ve got a meeting right after lunch.”

This news was more ominous to me than to Ciccone. Not because I had been risking my life for the last five months or because we had so much tied up in this investigation, but because I had been through this before with the Los Angeles Division. Ciccone, ever the good soldier, was ready to take on the SAC, the ASAC, or anyone else who threatened the well-being of the investigation. It was just another battle to John, but to me it signified serious trouble. I was aware that this might be not just another run-of-the-mill bureaucratic battle but our Waterloo.

Before getting involved in the Mongols case, I had worked undercover for Special Agent John Jacques in one of the most extensive and complex operations ATF had yet attempted. We’d purchased one fully automatic 30mm cannon from an arms smuggler and had an order in for four more. We desperately needed to jam this guy and his whole operation. He’d already sold one of the cannons to some antigovernment thug up in Washington State. Seeing such armaments in the hands of people willing to sell to the highest bidder was scary enough, but then the smuggler offered to sell me a fully armed Cobra helicopter gunship. This would have been one of the most significant seizures in ATF history. We submitted the plans along with a mountain of paperwork to the SAC and prepared to put the operation into play. But the SAC responded with an absolutely stunning order:
Shut the investigation down.

I was speechless. I argued with the SAC. I told him that there was already a fully automatic 30mm cannon out there in the hands of some asshole who hated Uncle Sam and everything he stood for. There were smugglers bringing major military armaments into the country; we had U.S. Customs on board with us; as matter of fact, Customs was willing to furnish the money to buy the Cobra. The Los Angeles SAC’s response to all our pleading was an unconditional no.

“End of story,” he said. “Shut it down.”

Against the advice of his RAC, senior Customs officials, and even his own intelligence personnel, the Los Angeles SAC did shut the undercover investigation down. All we could do was walk out of his office in shock and disbelief—letting a once-in-a-lifetime international arms-smuggling investigation wither into just another unremarkable gun buy.

It was a Friday, one
P.M.
Ciccone and I were in the downtown Los Angeles office, staring at a roomful of suits: Dick Curd, the Los Angeles special agent in charge; John Torres, the assistant special agent in charge; and Tom Brandon, the group resident agent in charge.

Both Curd and Torres had an agenda that was somewhat less than conducive to the success of our complex investigation. Dick Curd was nearing the end of his career with ATF and, from my perspective, wanted to cruise for the remainder of his term as SAC. His young assistant, John Torres, was an administrative climber. And not rocking the boat was the way up in the bureau. Torres knew that deep undercover operations presented potentially career-ending decisions. Operations like this involved laying out large quantities of money, obtaining electronic surveillance, sending vast amounts of paperwork up the chain of command. Our operation, due to its scope and importance, would be monitored in Washington, D.C., by the top officials in ATF and the Treasury Department. There was no way that Curd and Torres wanted any part of a monitored investigation like that.

As we sat down for the meeting, there were smiles and pleasantries all around, but I felt like I was in a used-car salesman’s cubicle. Ciccone leaned over and whispered in my ear: “Don’t say anything. Not a word.”

Tom Brandon, who shared Ciccone’s and my ambitions for the case, opened the meeting with a background synopsis of the Mongols investigation. As I watched his presentation, I realized just how remarkable it was that we had gotten as far as we had. We’d accomplished everything that we’d said we were going to accomplish. I’d actually gotten my bottom rocker and was an official prospect for the Mongols Motorcycle Club. Every aspect of the investigation was where it was projected to be at this point; I’d gathered evidence of the Mongols trafficking in methamphetamine and cocaine, witnessed them in possession of stolen motorcycles and assault rifles, and was confident that, given time, I could make some major drug and gun buys from them.

As if he had not heard one word of Brandon’s presentation, the SAC said: “I’ve decided to shut the investigation down.”

But Brandon, a former United States Marine, was no pushover. His face turned crimson. He began to argue vehemently with Curd and Torres. The SAC and ASAC were taken aback. If Curd was going to shut down the investigation, Brandon said, he wanted to see it all in writing. He wanted it clearly documented for everyone in the ATF chain of command, from Los Angeles to Washington, D.C. Curd wasn’t going to be able to shut this one down for no reason without showing the entire bureau what he’d done and having to answer for it down the line.

There was a long pause. Ciccone and I glanced at each other, unsure how this outburst was going to play.

Then Curd quickly backpedaled. “Well, okay, I’ll give it some more thought,” he said. “But as of right now the investigation is shut down. Queen’s not to go back under until I’ve made my final decision.”

I remembered Ciccone’s warning to keep my mouth shut; instead of blowing my cool, I leaned over to John’s ear and whispered: “That’s not gonna work. I’m prospecting. I gotta be there tonight or I’ll be lookin’ at a royal Mongol ass-whippin’. At the very least.”

Ciccone told Curd that, in the prospect stage, I had to be present to serve the Mongols membership every night of the week. There were no exceptions. The SAC looked at Ciccone and said: “Well, he can just tell the Mongols he was out with some bimbo.”