You Can Run but You Can't Hide (4 page)

My mom was so proud of my efforts. I hadn’t done anything in a

long time to make her smile. It felt good to see her happy.

After a few months, I grew tired of hanging out with the hippies,

so a couple of my buddies and I started our own gang. We called

ourselves the Blue Demons. We seemed to share a lot of the same

interests: robbing, stealing, and fighting.

One night, I was on my way up to a spot called Goat Hill, fol-

lowing Donny Miller and Richard Quintana in my old Chevy. I was

dating Richard’s sister Beverly, which made him nuts. Richard was

in a gang called the Creek Rats. Since the rest of his gang wasn’t

around that night, I figured he wouldn’t do anything crazy. We all

hung out on the hill for a while, drinking and smoking.

Even though I wouldn’t carry a gun today, back then I packed a

.22 single-shot Luger. Richard asked if he could take a look at my

piece. I should have said no right then, but I didn’t think anything

of it, so I handed it over. At first, he was completely nonchalant,

looking at it as if he was just interested in my gun. Next thing I

knew, he had it pointed straight at my head. Before anyone could

stop him, he pulled the trigger.
Boom!

I went down like a rag doll, with blood pouring from the top of

my head. He started screaming as he threw the Luger to the

ground. He was completely freaking out. I could hear him yelling,

“I didn’t mean to! It just went off in my hand!” The bullet grazed

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Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e

the top of my skull but only penetrated my skin. Thank God I was

blessed with a hard head! My hair suffered more than I did. For a

moment there, I thought I was a goner, but the doctors just gave me

a few stitches and sent me on my way.

Since Richard was my girlfriend’s brother, I didn’t rat him out. In-

stead, I told everyone that the Evans brothers had shot me, because

all of the tough guys in West Denver were terrified of them. All three

of them, Billy, Larry, and Jerry Evans, were major badasses. Beau Ro-

driguez even steered clear of those boys. Nobody did anything about

the shooting, because I said it was all an accident. I figured it was a

win-win situation for all of our reputations. I have to admit, I

thought for a long time about what happened that night. I was so

lucky Richard didn’t blow my head off. That whole experience made

me go back to the easy, free life with my hippie friends for a while.

I was smoking weed in the park one day when two big, mean-

looking guys came through. I couldn’t stop staring. They looked so

cool. Someone told me those guys were in a gang called the Devil’s

Disciples. They were the baddest, meanest, toughest guys I ever

saw. They were like gods. All the girls wanted to be with them, and

every guy wanted to be them, including me.

As soon as I could get enough cash together, I bought a leather

jacket and pants and a pair of motorcycle boots. Of course, there’s

the hair. You can’t forget the hair. The mullet was born. I slicked my

hair up into a pompadour and found a set of cool shades to wear.

My hair was shorter than it is today, but my look hasn’t really

changed since.

The next time the Disciples came through the park, I wanted

them to notice me. I watched their every move, trying to learn how

they acted. They were always in complete control. There was no ask-

ing; these guys took what they wanted, and nobody dared mess with

them. If a hippie had some weed, one of the bikers would just grab it

from him. If a guy was hanging out with his girlfriend and the biker

wanted her, she was his. If anyone tried to give them a hard time, the

bikers would beat them with anything lying around—a chain belt, a

tire iron, whatever.

Eventually, one of them walked over to where I was hanging out.

He whipped off his wraparound shades and looked me up and

down. He was a giant with this long reddish beard that went down

to the middle of his chest.

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He said, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

I shot right back with, “Hey man, who the hell do you think
you

are?”

He couldn’t help but smile, because I wasn’t afraid to go nose-

to-nose with him even though I was six inches shorter and fifty

pounds lighter. One thing bikers admire more than anything is a

guy who never backs down from a fight, no matter the odds. My

ever-growing police record would vouch that I never backed off.

The biker dude introduced himself. “Name’s Tom. You can call

me Tom Tom. I’m a Disciple. You a biker, boy?”

I blurted out, “Yeah, I got a Harley,” doing my best to look

mean. “I got a couple of ’em actually.” It was such a big fat lie.

Tom Tom’s smile grew even wider. “Well, brother, I’d like to

check your scooters out sometime. You ever thought about getting

in with the Disciples?”

I didn’t want to come across as being too excited, so I played it

cool. “Maybe. I’m not sure, brother. I’ve got a lot of things going

on right now, so . . .”

“All right, I’ll see you around, then,” Tom Tom said as he held

his hand out for me to shake. “Take it easy.”

Tom Tom and I began hanging out all the time. He showed me

the way of the biker lifestyle—also known as getting really high

and getting laid 24/7.

One cold Denver night, a few of us were trying to find the ad-

dress of a party someone told us about. When we finally got to the

place, we found an abandoned house that looked like no one had

lived there for years. It was a burned-out dump.

As we approached the house, I heard an awful noise coming

from above the porch where we were standing. It sounded like a

wounded animal crying for help. We looked up and saw a guy we

called “the Creature” hanging out of a window. He was one of the

biggest, nastiest, and ugliest mothers around. He was six four and

weighed at least three hundred pounds. His face was all scarred up,

and his teeth were as crooked as an old split-rail fence. I borrowed

one of my best “Dogisms” from the Creature, although I adapted it

years later to fit my needs: “I will crawl through hellfire, barbed

wire, and brimstone to hunt you down.” That is the only good

thing I can say I ever learned from him.

The Creature was hanging out the window, flipping God the

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Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e

bird, and saying, “I fucking hate you, God! Go fuck yourself!” We

could hear him yelling this over and over again.

“Forget that,” I said. “I ain’t going in there, man. That fucker is

gonna get blown up by a lighting bolt in about two seconds for say-

ing that kind of crap. You can’t curse God like that.”

The rest of the guys, including Tom Tom, just laughed at me

and walked up the front stairs into the house.

The place was supposedly the new clubhouse for a chapter of

the Outlaws, which was a biker gang out of Chicago. The house

was jammed with people partying and having sex everywhere.

When a biker got trashed enough, he’d grab any chick and find a

room or screw on the spot.

Tom Tom, the boys, and I shouldered our way through the

packed crowd in the hallway and finally found what used to be the

kitchen. The Creature came barreling into the room in a full rage.

Something had gotten him all riled up. It was a crucifix hanging up

on one of the walls.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Who put that fucking hippie up on my wall?

I’m turning that motherfucker upside down!”

Without any hesitation, I got right in his face. I may have been

robbing, stealing, getting high, and screwing everything in sight, but

I still knew that turning that cross upside down would be the sign of

the devil himself.

I looked straight up at the Creature as he towered over me. “You

ain’t gonna do that,” I told him.

Everyone in the room stopped dead in their tracks.

The Creature inched closer. “What did you just say to me, moth-

erfucker?”

I motioned to everyone else standing around us. They all looked

terrified. “God hears every word you say. If you curse Him, He will

strike you down. If you invite the devil into your soul, he will surely

come. God’s wrath is real, brothers!” Of this, I was certain.

I could see that what I said stunned the Creature. He got really

quiet. I thought he was going to shoot me dead. Instead, he took a

step back with a look of fear in his eyes.

He stared down at the floor. “Shit,” he said to himself. I let out

a big sigh of relief as he walked away.

Tom Tom came running up and put me in a headlock.

“Chapman, you’re a goddamned Bible-thumper. I’ve got a great

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idea for your nickname.” Seems all bikers had to have a nickname if

they were going to be a part of the club.

“I think we’re gonna call you Dog. That’s God spelled back-

wards.”

“Hmmm. Dog, huh? I like it!” And I did. It fit me to a tee. I was

mean like a dog and loyal, too. I could be your best friend or your

worst enemy. It was perfect.

Tom Tom smiled at me and said, “Now let’s smoke some

weed . . .
Dog
!”

I l ov e d l i v i n g the biker life in Denver, but Tom Tom and I

were quickly wearing out our welcome. The city cops were trying to

nail us on a few burglaries we pulled off. On top of that, I found out

Beau Rodriguez had been made vice president of a Mexican biker

gang named the Hades Heads, which meant it was only a matter of

time before we rumbled. It was like the old days of the Wild West:

Denver just wasn’t big enough for the both of us.

Tom said the time was right for us to go south and get in with the

Disciples in Phoenix. I wanted to go, but I was pretty sure my par-

ents and Aunt Iris would protest the decision. Somehow Tom con-

vinced them that he could become my legal guardian. He said there

were more job opportunities in Phoenix. In fact, he told them he had

a few good ones already lined up. Somehow my dad had the impres-

sion we were going south to work manual labor. Naturally, Tom

failed to mention that our prospective “jobs” were actually heists.

So, in September 1968, Tom and I scraped together as much cash

as we could to make the trip. I sold my 1959 Fairlane convertible,

and Tom sold his Harley. We were still smiling as we walked onto In-

terstate 25 with only the leathers on our backs and a stack of cash in

pillowcases. I adjusted my pillowcase on my shoulder, started walk-

ing, and stuck my thumb out.

C h a p t e r F o u r

PROSPECTING FOR

THE DISCIPLES

To make some
extra money en route to Arizona, Tom Tom

and I stopped along the way so I could box for cash. I knew I could

whip just about anyone, so we rolled into towns, set up a match or

two, wagered, and collected our winnings before splitting for our

next fight. We did this for a couple of months.

I fought a lot of those fights at a bar in Grants, New Mexico. I

was dancing in place, warming up in the center of the ring at Sal-

ito’s Bar, raised a glove in the air, but nobody could care less except

for a group of Devil’s Disciples hanging out at one table.

I went back to my corner, where my trainer for the night, a Dis-

ciple named Indian, peeled my robe off so I could step out. His real

name was Dean Popovich, but sometimes the Disciples called him

Dean Martin, because he looked just like him. I’m not sure where

he got the name Indian from, because he said he was half Russian

and half Italian. I didn’t have the cash to get a real boxer’s robe, so

it was just something I scored for five bucks at the Salvation Army.

Everyone loved giving me grief about it.

Indian slapped me on the shoulder and yelled in my ear, “Here

we go now!” trying to get me all charged up.

Indian was the most skilled fighter in the gang and the only Dis-

ciple I was truly afraid of. I tried messing with him once, which was

a really bad idea. He beat the crap out of me. He’d always try to

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23

push my buttons by refusing to call me Dog. Instead he referred to

me as Puppy.

Most of the crowd was made up of New Mexicans and Mexi-

cans from Chihuahua. They were madmen around the fights—

yelling, drinking, and putting down their bets. The Mexicans went

especially wild when a gringo was set to fight, because most of the

time he would get his ass kicked. So many gringos got busted up at

Salito’s that it was known as the “Gringo Graveyard.”

I heard Indian yelling from behind me. “Don’t let that crap get

to you, Puppy. Me and the brothers got over thirteen hundred dol-

lars riding on you. You’re gonna show this Red Lopez guy what’s up

tonight. It ain’t gonna be like that shit with Titus.”

My only career loss had come at the hands of a young guy off

the Navajo reservation. We called him Titus because he was a tough